


The Professional.

by eeeeeeeeeerenjaegar



Category: FFXV - Fandom, Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Other, Torture, i'm starting it, ignis doesn't fuck around, is that a tag, it should be, it's gonna get bad later on, kid noctis - Freeform, not super small but he's certainly small, protector!Ignis, seriously torture, small noctis, technically regis is only mentioned too
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-26
Updated: 2017-07-09
Packaged: 2018-10-10 18:51:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 8
Words: 28,633
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10444896
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eeeeeeeeeerenjaegar/pseuds/eeeeeeeeeerenjaegar
Summary: Ignis is a hitman. He's a bodyguard. He's Noctis' sworn protector. He made a promise, and he plans to uphold it.Even with an army at his back, he is a man of his word. No harm will befall the boy.





	1. An Arsonist's Lullaby.

**Author's Note:**

> ye ever jus get real sad abt a concept again

10:57 PM.

 Three minutes til the hour. That will make thirty hours altogether. Ignis is tired - no, he’s _exhausted,_ worn to the bone after driving for thirty hours, nearly nonstop. The only time he dared pull over was when Noctis had said he was hungry, or needed to stretch his legs, or the tank was running on fumes.

He can’t drive anymore. Hawkish, razor sharp eyes are being put to the grindstone and dulled by fatigue’s heavy hands, and they’re beginning to slip shut behind his glasses every so often. Ignis doesn’t stop for his own safety, but instead for Noctis’, who sleeps soundly in the backseat wound up in a blazer much too big for him. Ignis can, when he focuses, hear the boy’s steady breaths over the smooth sound of the car’s tires to highway asphalt.

They’re somewhere in… Hell, Ignis doesn’t even know at this point. Somewhere on the east coast, that much he can be certain of, but the exact location is a mystery. It will likely remain a mystery until tomorrow morning, when Ignis can get some information from the Motel 6’s front desk clerk about exactly _where_ they are.

It’s been thirty hours of running. The hunter has become the hunted.

Ignis sits for some time in the parking lot of the absolutely _abysmal_ but best-shot motel. It’s cheap, and he’s fairly sure that it will be entirely unfit for someone of Noct’s status, but beggars cannot be choosers and for once, the worst Ignis could do is his best. Gloved hands slide up the wheel to rest at twelve o’clock, and he presses his forehead to the wheel and closes his eyes. He could fall asleep like this, he thinks absently.

The thought is dispelled as soon as it appears, however, and Ignis moves to get out of the car as quietly as he can manage, careful not to wake the heir still sleeping the moments away without a worry in the world. 

Would that Ignis could murder his way to Noctis’ happiness, so he might sleep that way for the rest of his years. This will have to be enough.

Ignis makes sure the car door is firmly shut behind him before patting uselessly at where his breast pocket _would_ normally be, should he have his blazer on. He sighs through his nose, pushing up his glasses when he realizes what he seeks is not, in fact, on his person at present. He turns, just in time for tired eyes to catch on Noct’s small, shifting form. 

Ignis opens the back door closest to Noct’s head, ducking in just slightly. 

“Noctis?”

At the call of his name, the boy sits up and rubs his eyes, yawning something wide but quiet. He blinks a few times, clearly disoriented, and Ignis moves to step back just a bit. “We’ve stopped,” he tells Noct quietly, keeping a hand on the door. “We can stretch out a bit, now. Get some proper rest, in a real bed.”

Noctis yawns again, groggily slipping out of the backseat with Ignis’ blazer forgotten behind him. He’s quick to grab it and a smaller bag shoved under the seat before shutting the door, locking it with the remote on his keyring. He slings the duffle bag over his shoulder as he walks beside one very small, very sleepy heir, shuffling the entire way to the front desk to check in and then beyond.

They’re lucky enough to have gotten a room on ground floor, though. Truth be told, Ignis is certain that despite years of physical and mental training for things _much_ worse than this, he isn’t sure he could carry a dead-weight ten-year-old up a flight of stairs. No matter how small he may be.

The elder tries to sharpen as he swipes the keycard, hearing the mechanical click of the lock. Noctis seems to be antsy, moving to brush past and find a bed - but Ignis holds him back with a soft hand to his chest.

“Ah,” he says, “Give me just a moment.”

Noctis huffs, pouting, but obeys nonetheless. Ignis takes careful steps forward, checking the closest corners of the room first - then, leading Noct just inside and shutting the door behind them, he moves forward to check the bathroom.

Nothing. There’s no one waiting. They’re ahead of their execution squad.

He cannot afford to be sloppy. Ignis’ hands run over and under ledges of desks, under beds, around the threshold of the door. There’s nothing. No devices. No trackers. No explosives. Nothing.

This is a safe place.

At that thought, Ignis lets his guard down as much as he can without it becoming a liability. His shoulders relax, and he can feel Noctis’ hazy blue eyes on him. This is something the boy has seen many times before; Ignis checking rooms for security reasons, clearing something out before giving the all-clear. Still, Ignis knows why his stare seems to be more frightened than bored.

“You still haven’t said where we are.”

Ignis looks over to Noctis, trying to offer something of a comforting smile. “I know. Try to let me worry about such things. For now, you need your rest. _Proper_ rest.”

He watches the heir sigh and heave himself into one of the twin beds he likely won’t stay in, making something of a nest around himself as he settles down. His stare remains fixed on Ignis, though, and it doesn’t seems as though he plans on sleeping much. Ignis doesn’t have the energy to try and lull him to sleep faster; The energy he does have, however minimal, must be spent on emergency preparations.

Like loading pistols.

Ignis hoists the duffle bag he’d brought with them onto a desk pressed against the wall, unzipping it quickly and checking the innermost pockets. There’s an unloaded .22 on one of them, and he pulls to memory the .45 still in the glove compartment of the car. His rifle remains loaded in the trunk.

He prays to whatever God is listening it won’t come to that.

Trying to shake his mind of thoughts unimportant, Ignis focuses on the task at hand - loading the .22 and setting it on the bedside table. His glasses come off to sit beside it, and the world blurs more than Ignis remembers. Exhaustion grips him firm when he sits down on the edge of bed, and it grips harder than it has in the past thirty hours. It’s suffocating, and the last of his energy is used to toe off his shoes, not bothering with his belt, or anything else.

Ignis can hear the blankets shift on the other side of the room, and still sense the light of the yellow lamp through his eyelids, but he cannot will them to open. “Noctis,” he murmurs, “Get some rest.”

“I don’t think I can sleep,” the boy’s voice is closer than he expects, and he cracks an unwilling eye open to look at him. “It’s cold in here. When can we go home?”

Noctis stands at the edge of Ignis’ bed, and instinctually, he moves to give the boy some room. “I’m afraid I cannot answer that,” he holds the comforter open for Noct, but can’t motivate himself enough to join him. “We’ll need to… Dye your hair, in the morning. We’ll find a petrol station, and… Go from there.”

A still-gloved hand finds its way into Noctis’ hair, and ceases its movement.

 

\--

 

When Ignis does wake, it’s not of his own volition.

He starts into consciousness when Noctis shakes him awake, very clearly energized and itching to do _something._ Ignis could almost laugh at the irony - the one time he wants to keep sleeping, Noctis isn’t having it.

“Ignis!” The alertness in his voice makes the elder wonder just how long he’s been waiting. “Finally. You never sleep in this late.”

“You’re never awake so early,” Ignis quips, sitting up and reaching behind Noctis for his glasses. “Perhaps all this travelling has somehow got us swapped.”

Noct doesn’t say anything, but slides off the bed and makes for their duffle bag. He rummages through it carelessly, as children are wont to do, and Ignis stands as he slides his glasses on.

The world is sharp. His thoughts are cohesive. Even still, the end could be near.

Ignis knows well what the boy is after. “Hungry, Noct?”

“Starving.”

“Well, I suppose we’d best find the nearest petrol station. Get you something to eat, as well as pick up whatever else we may need.”

He tries to run through a mental list with swiftness. Road snacks for Noct, water, hair dye for the both of them, perhaps a new frame for his glasses… Anything that will keep the both of them from looking so recognizable.

“I guess we can’t go home after that.”

“...I don’t think so, Noctis.”

Noctis looks disappointed. Upset as he leans to sit back on his haunches, and it breaks Ignis’ heart. He looks frightened, still, despite his energy and his demeanor; Ignis has learned to read the boy like none besides his father can.

Can. Ignis imagines the proper terminology would be ‘could’, now.

“Why do we have to keep driving, Iggy?”

Ignis looks down at the child sat back before an open duffle bag, and kneels to sit beside him on the floor. “Noctis,” he begins, softly. “You’re… You’re a very special young man. Your father w-- _Is_ a very, very important man. Despite being important, there are some that would rather see the both of you gone. I cannot allow that. My duty is to you, Noctis, to your safety, to your protection, your wellbeing. There are those that seek to harm you.”

Noctis furrows his brows, and Ignis watches ten thousand questions come alive in big blue eyes. “So… We’re being followed.”

Ignis steels himself. “Yes.”

“Because someone wants me dead.”

“...Yes.” It’s a truth he needs to know.

“Is that why you came home the other day and made us pack? Why didn’t you just tell me then?”

Ignis inhales quietly. This is harder than he thought it would be, different from when he played this conversation out in his mind. He remembers, too, exactly the event Noctis is speaking of - the night he came to spirit the heir away, the night he came to take him somewhere. _Anywhere_. A hundred men on their tail as they left Hell’s Kitchen, New York, with nothing more than what was in Ignis’ car and a bag of supplies for Noctis.

Ignis figures the hunter count is likely somewhere between seventy-five and fifty, now. The rest of the rat race is, if he had to make an educated guess, searching each and every crevice of New York.

“We needed to leave then and there, Noct. Even packing a bag was risky. I didn’t want to frighten you more than necessary.”

Noctis looks down, staring blankly at the disorganized, ruffled contents of the duffle bag. He moves slowly, shuffling clothes and checking pockets, movements slowly becoming more panicked until he finds what he seems to have been after. It’s a small object, it fits in his palm and pockets, but it seems to bring him solace in the moment.

It’s a figurine of a teal fox-like creature, with large ears and a red jewel on its forehead. It’s Noctis’ favorite comfort object, a gift from his father if memory serves Ignis correctly - it doesn’t move, it isn’t bendable, and yet it seems to be something that calms Noctis like nothing else.

Noctis looks it over, solemn. “Ignis?”

“Yes?”

“...My dad, do you think he’s okay?”

Ignis’ breath hitches in his throat. He cannot bear to tell Noctis the truth, but to lie would be unforgivable. He doesn’t say anything, instead rubbing the boy’s back in careful circles. “Noct, I will do whatever I must to keep you out of harm’s way. I will pay whatever price demanded of me. As I said, my duty is to _you._ ”

It seems to go in one ear and out the other. Noctis goes from solemn to completely blank, and it feels as though he’s been stabbed in the stomach, the blade twisted and dragged. He moves to sit crosslegged, now, and gathers the heir into a tight hug. Noctis is limp, shaking like a leaf with an iron grip on his figurine, and buries into Ignis as if trying to melt into him. Ignis doesn’t feel any tears - he imagines those will come later, when Noctis understands the truth of his silence - but even still, he can feel his charge’s despair. His pain, his overwhelming fear. “Listen to me very carefully,” Ignis whispers into his hair, “ _I will not let harm befall you.”_

He feels Noct nod against his shoulder. They sit like this for some time, until eventually, Ignis carefully unglues Noctis from himself to look at him. Both hands come up to hold his face, and he forces a smile. “Come now,” he says quietly, “Why don’t we get you something to eat? It wouldn’t do to have a starving heir running about, now, would it?”

Noctis doesn’t smile and Ignis doesn’t expect him to. Instead they stand, and Ignis makes sure Noct gets into a fresh change of clothes before they depart.

Noctis doesn’t let go of his figurine.

Noctis sits in the back seat of the car while Ignis drives them to the nearest petrol station. There’s gas and goods, two smaller shops sporting nothing but Native American objects, fireworks, knives, cheap and trashy clothing that gives a clear indicator of where they are; Somewhere in Tennessee. There are keychains hanging on racks that are the shape of the state, and Ignis sighs because this is most _certainly_ not somewhere someone of Noctis’ status should be. Still, he tries to make the visit short and sweet; Ignis buys a pair of jeans and t-shirt for himself, as well as hair dye for both himself and Noct.

“I have to dye it brown?” Noct says quietly with a grimace, staring at the plastic bag Ignis carries as they make their way to into the petrol station for food. “I’ll look like you.”

Ignis gives a light chuckle. “Excuse me, but I hardly think that would be a bad thing.”

“Still, it’ll be weird.”

Ignis doesn’t disagree; It’s going to take some getting used to. The idea, though, is to make them stick out less. No one really looks twice at a father and son pair.

Food comes in the way of one much-too-large cinnamon bun and the _worst_ gas station salad and sandwich Ignis can say he’s _ever had._ Once again, though, he keeps his complaints internal. He knows well that this is necessary, that this is survival. And if one large cinnamon roll, a boy with a face full of frosting and wilted greens are the way to such survival, well. Best to put up, and shut up.

Ignis is on the home stretch of his meal when he looks over to Noctis, his breakfast forgotten and figurine back in his hands. Ignis watches him study it, pet its unfeeling little head, and study the bottom of the attached stand.

Ignis pushes his glasses farther up onto his nose, discreetly studying what the serial number reads.

A bullet of thought is shot through Ignis’ brain at pointblank range. Ideas and fears splatter on the pavement behind him, and his eyes widen a fraction of an inch.

It’s not a serial number.

It’s a bank code, spelling Noctis’ full name in numbers. Seventeen digits for seventeen characters.

Ignis has had that code memorized since the moment Noctis was named and Regis had changed his most important passwords to that series of numbers. He cannot _fathom_ how he’d never seen it, never noticed it until now - Ignis cannot possibly think of a reason why this detail would have slipped under his ever-alert radar. The bullet of thought that had struck him is extracted, melted down, loaded, and fired once more. This time, etched on the bullet, is ice-cold fear.

Noctis holds his family’s  _everything_ in his hands. The access key to city plans for Hell’s Kitchen, hundreds of overseas accounts with _hundreds of millions_ of dollars, likely thousands of files on sensitive information on the other politicians that _run_ New York. There’s stock, Ignis is sure, stock and trades, information to make or break a man. The only good man left in a world on fire had entrusted his life’s work to one boy. Regis’ work, the father before him and his father before him, their work and their plans rested on the underside of a mythical blue fox in the hands of a ten-year-old child.

And Noctis has no idea.

Ignis, suddenly, feels violently ill. It’s a struggle to swallow the mouthful of greens he’d taken just moments earlier; He does, with effort, and fights to keep a stoic face. Noctis knows not what he holds, and Ignis’ thoughts jump to his charge being _tortured_ for a passcode he doesn’t know. Noctis’ screams are shaky and teary, all cries for _Iggy, help me--_

“Iggy?”

“...Hm?”

“Where’d you go? I’ve been trying to get your attention.”

“Ah,” Ignis pushes up his glasses, this time, out of nervous habit. “Apologies, Noct. I was lost in thought.”

“I’m ready to go. It’s hot.”

Ignis nods, closing his eyes for just a moment to regain his composure, compile his ideas and theories. They’re set aside for the time being, and he stands to dispose of the remains of their meal. He can feel Noct’s eyes on him, in the way they were on him last night; Full of confusion, and concern. Ignis runs a gloved hand through his charge’s hair, ruffling it slightly.

“Now,” he says, “Let’s see what we can do about that hair.”

 

\--

 

Ignis is changed, and freshly showered when he starts in on Noct’s hair with the switchblade he keeps inside of his blazer. Scissors weren’t something they were able to procure, so he supposes this will have to do. Noct seems to trust him well enough, and his hair is thin enough that it doesn’t seem to hurt him any. It’s not precise, nor is it professional by any means, but it’s not bad at all by any means. Noct’s hair is out of his eyes, bangs and sides short.

“It’s not gonna sting or anything, is it?” Noctis asks when Ignis works on mixing the dye, “It smells weird.”

“No,” Ignis assures, “It’s not going to sting. It’s just going to feel…” There’s a pause as he works on his answer. “Imagine someone dumping glue on your head.”

Noct grimaces. That, in turn, makes Ignis smile, unable to hold it back at such a priceless reaction. “How long do I have to keep it in?”

“Well, unfortunately, your parents both blessed and cursed you with terribly dark hair. Should be about forty-five minutes.”

Noctis lets out an overly long, exaggerated groan, which Ignis returns with just as much dramatization. He’s unhappy, but that much was to be expected. “The sooner I get it mixed and in your hair, the sooner you get to wash it out.”

It’s lathered on thick, and Ignis makes sure he covers all of Noct’s hair without getting too much on his skin. Once he’s got on the plastic cap that came in the box, he’s free to go and do as he pleases about the room, and Ignis starts on his own hair.

Time passes idly. They’ve both washed out their hair and eaten once again come sunset, taken care of a few more idle chores for the remainder of their stay - which, Ignis hopes, shouldn’t be more than two days. They need to get moving again, that fact is indisputable, unarguable.

But, for now, it’s time for a cigarette.

Ignis exits the room with the promise that he’ll be just outside should his charge need him. He exits after receiving the affirmative, and takes a spot on the curb.

His hair is in his face when he leans down to hold the end of his cigarette to flame. His glasses are on, though sliding down, and the half-darkness fallen over the parking lot both puts him on edge and sets him at ease. The light hasn’t yet left, not entirely, but the sun has disappeared under the horizon. There are no stars. No moon. Just a vast endless sky of something not quite pastel, and not quite dark. Ignis looks up, taking a long drag, and holds his breath for a half of a moment before exhaling.

He decides now is likely the best time to sort out next moves. Or… Shed a bit more light on whatever ungodly realization he’d had at the deepest secret Noctis doesn’t know he keeps.

He pulls out his phone, unsurprised to see he’s had no one attempt to contact him. The last person he’d spoken to had been Nyx Ulric, a guard of Regis’, telling him to take Noctis and _run._ Ignis remembers where he was, the exact time, the tone of Nyx’s voice, and the hundred realizations that hit him at once during that phone call. It had been short-lived, no more than an acknowledgement on Ignis’ end and a vague rundown of the situation before the line went dead.

Regis has been killed. Ardyn is moving. The boy is not safe.

Regis, Ignis thinks as he takes another drag, God rest him. He’d been a good man, a politician who _cared,_ despite the fact that his immense amount of money and influence could’ve granted him whatever throne he decided he wanted to sit on. He was light amid the darkest place, purity amongst hundreds of thousands of corrupt men and women, seeking their own ends. He was the last good thing New York had ever seen.

And Ardyn Izunia had him shot like an animal needing to be put down.

Though, in fairness, Ignis expected nothing less from the veritable lord of corporation and corruption. Ardyn Izunia was one _hell_ of a man, if there was any man left in him at all, and this day was… It had been coming for some time. It seemed only natural that when Regis would take nothing, no deals, no partnerships, no exchanging of any kind, Ardyn would have the problem remedied with murder.

Regis was… Brilliant, then, in retrospect. Ignis exhales smoke from his nose and brushes the hair from his eyes, thinking that really, there was no better place to hide Noctis. To hide work that, in the wrong hands, would undoubtedly turn the state upside-down. A good man Regis may have been, but even good men need protection; Ignis was one such protection method. Nyx Ulric and a handful of others had been another.

Noctis doesn’t even _know._

That’s the only part Ignis can’t seem to comprehend. Regis was good, not blind; He had to have known that this would happen. He had to have known that, at some point, Ardyn would tire of his endless declining. He would get tired of playing nice. He had to have known that this would put Noctis in a danger he had no hope to face by himself, no hope to face until he’s his own grown man.

Ignis puts out what’s left of his cigarette, running both hands through his hair and pushing his glasses up. This was… Bloody maddening.

When he enters the room, Noctis has changed. He isn’t absently focusing on something distracting but, instead, holding onto the very thing putting them in danger. He’s touching its ears, its nose, anything; His cheeks are wet, and his eyes are red.

Oh.

In hardly an instant, Ignis is sitting on the edge of the bed, a hand running through his newly-lightened hair. He’s wiping his cheeks, not speaking until Noctis does, instead acting as an immovable pillar of comfort, strength, and hope.

“My dad,” Noct says quietly, “I’m-- I’m never gonna see him again, am I?”

“Oh, Noctis,” Ignis breathes, pulling him into a hug. Noctis melts, clinging to him seemingly as tightly as he can manage. “Noctis, I’m so sorry. I’m so, so sorry.”

“When we go home… He won’t be there,” Noctis’ words are muffled against the fabric of Ignis’ t-shirt. “Will he?”

Ignis, this time, knows he owes him a proper answer. No matter how much it kills to speak. “No, he won’t.” He can only mutter apologies for the things he could not prevent, after that. The guilt weighs on him - had he been there, had he been faster, better, perhaps Noctis wouldn’t be without a father. Perhaps the world wouldn’t be without a great man. Instead, these things are lost. Instead, Noctis is hurting.

Because Ignis wasn’t there.

“Ignis,” Noctis chokes, “Promise me you’re-- Promise me you won’t leave. Promise me you won’t-- Don’t go.”

Ignis leans back, and takes Noct’s face in his hands. He wipes at the tears with his thumbs.

Ignis gathers all the sincerity, all the truth and determination, he can manage.

  
“ _I_ _promise you._ ”


	2. A Murder's Lament.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes, it's up to Noctis to take Ignis' safety into his own small hands.

Ignis imagines it’s the car that gave them away.

The Motel 6 in who-knows-where, Tennessee, has been considered home for the past two nights. It’s going on the third, sometime around 7:45 at night, when things go from calm to chaos.

It’s a taken years for Ignis to pinpoint the kind of chaos that’s generated when being held at gunpoint. It’s a calm, serene kind of chaos, one that’s silent but devastating. It’s everywhere and nowhere, both invisible but glaring. It has a sound, it has a gut feeling, and to Ignis, it has a damn scent. It smells like the cold and like steel, it sounds like the stilling of every heart in the room. A silence to make the ears pour blood.

Or perhaps that’s just the concussion he _knows_ he’s got.

Ignis can’t say he regrets how he handled the situation. He can say, however, he regrets letting himself be bested. He regrets letting his knees give out when Noctis still remained curled up somewhere in the room, and he regrets not being able to take on one man. Bullet in his shoulder or no, this should have been easy. This should have been child’s play. It wasn’t.

Ignis had felt something lance through his left shoulder the moment the other assassin’s eyes caught Noct’s, and he was across the door’s threshold. Ignis had heard his charge yelp, blankets flurry and knees hit hard on the carpet. That must have been Noctis heading for the bathroom, and at that _exact_ moment, a thousand neurons fired at the same time.

The struggle had begun.

It went well, for awhile. Ignis had gained the upper hand and he kept it, until he had gone for the .22 pistol sitting bedside and it had disappeared. The surprise made him stop for a fraction of a moment, and it was enough time to do some genuine damage.

It was then that his head and been slammed against the corner of the nightstand, doubling his vision and sending his thoughts in every direction. The only two things he knew for certain was that something had cracked, something had popped, and that this could well be the end - Noctis would be shot immediately after him or, God forbid, in _front_ of him. It could be the end.

And, sitting propped against a wall, he knows it likely is about to be.

Ignis is watching with unfocused eyes as his opponent loads his pistol. He puts two bullets in the clip, and shoves the clip within the gun to put one of them in the chamber.

“You don’t look like you’re going anywhere,” The voice sounds nasally. Grating, and obnoxious. Ignis’ hands itch to take the man’s tongue out with his switchblade. “So sit tight. I need to ask your brat some questions.”

 _No,_ Ignis’ mind screams, and he moves to try to stand, try to get to the bathroom before the other can, but he can’t support his own weight. He can feel blood running down the back of his neck, and he can feel his heart start to race despite it hardly having anything to pump as the assassin heads for the bathroom door.

It opens, not having been held by anything, and Ignis’ breath catches when he hears Noct’s voice come in clear as day.

“Do-Don’t move! I’ll kill you, I swear!”

Ignis’ mind moves in the way his body can’t seem to - Noctis must have been the one to take the .22, and Ignis could hold him for being so clever but _kick_ him for taking a life. Not because it was wrong, not because it was morally unjustified - no, that would be hypocritical. Ignis wants to kick him, he thinks as he sits, bleeding, because Noctis shouldn’t ever have to feel the weight of murder on such small shoulders. No matter the reason.

Ignis watches in horror, double vision turning to triple and stomach churning, as his opponent stands with reluctant hands in the air. There’s still a gun in one, though finger not on the trigger, and he can see how hard Noctis is shaking as he walks the man toward the door. He walks with a fake confidence, with something he must have pulled out of the movies, with something ingenuine. His shoulders are tight, his eyes are wide, and his breath isn’t coming in as steady as a true killer’s. The gun is quite literally rattling in such nervous hands, the mechanisms clinking as they’re jarred.

There’s a blur of movement from the assassin still standing. Someone’s gun fires once. There’s a pause, before four more shots ring out.

Ignis feels blood not his own splatter against his face, his chest, getting in his eyelashes and in his hair. It’s warm and it drips down his face like paint, and he’s breathless both out of injury and circumstance. Noctis is still standing, eyes squeezed shut and trembling violently. The gun shivers hard in his hands, then drops to the floor with a thud. The clip is empty.

Ignis manages - no, _forces_ \- the strength out to haul himself up now. He’s got to, especially when a soft wheeze pierces the air and he realizes Noctis has _broken._ Noct is blurry in his eyes, but he can’t care to find his glasses or to get the blood out of his eyes as he makes his way to him. Noct collapses on him the moment he’s within range, and Ignis can’t stifle the gasp the pressure on his shoulder forces out. Still, he tries to hold his charge as tightly as he can manage, one bloody hand moving into the boy’s hair.

Noct wails. He cries, and he cries, and there’s nothing Ignis can do but hush him distractedly. He trembles so hard it near rattles Ignis’ teeth, it hurts his eyes the way the sobbing hurts his ears. He can only pet and hush, pet and hush, but Noctis won’t calm and Ignis worries he’s going to make himself ill carrying on the way he is.

“Noct,” Ignis slurs out, voice thick with blood and dizziness. “N-Noct, you…”

Noctis is the first one to pull back, and Ignis can just barely make out frightened blue eyes looking into his own. “You’re hurt,” the boy chokes, “Iggy you’re hurt _bad--_ ”

“Don’t,” Ignis can’t shake his head, because it hurts. Noctis separates from him entirely, and Ignis has to catch himself on the wall. “Noct…”

His gaze drifts to the floor, to the tacky color of the so-called carpet dull. But it’s something, and soon enough Noctis is back in front of him, trying to hold him up with a pair of glasses in his hand. Ignis doesn’t move, but his glasses are slid back onto his face, and the world becomes just the barest bit clearer.

Noctis is still crying, Ignis can hear it over the blood - or lack thereof - pumping in his ears. The ringing is beginning to subside, and his senses are coming back, but it’s slow. Too slow. Ignis feels dull as a well-loved carving tool, and it both panics and keeps him sane. So much is happening, yet there’s nothing going on, and if common sense doesn’t come back to him soon he knows he’s going bleed out thinking a fool’s thoughts.

In front of Noctis.

Noctis.

Ignis swallows, pushing up his glasses and leaving a bloody smudge on the edge of a lens. His arm shakes violently with the effort of holding himself up. The idea of passing out and leaving Noctis to fend for himself doesn’t sit well with him, so he tries to think through the haze, tries to let his mind’s river run clear.

Bleeding is more deadly than a concussion. Start with that.

“Noct,” Ignis tries again, though it’s hardly any clearer with his accent’s ruin. “Th’car. Glovebox, sewin’ kit. Keys…” He reaches into his pocket, weakly pulling them out and just barely holding them out.

Noctis stares at him for a moment until Ignis forces out a “ _Go,_ ” and then he’s off. He flies out the door without consequence, in and out in what must have been two minutes, and Ignis works to try and get himself off the floor again. It’s hard though his vision is clearing, his balance is still thrown and his stomach is still in knots. Noctis is under him the moment he seems to be able, holding him up with something in his hands.

Ignis curses himself for putting his charge in the position of caretaker.

Noctis helps him sit on the toilet seat, and Ignis heaves a breath of relief when he’s able to stop moving. “Noct, I need you to listen t’me very caref’lly, d’you understand?”

Noctis nods, hiccuping through tears.

“Fresh towels,” he breathes out, “Quickly.”

Noctis does as he’s bid, and Ignis leans over to turn on the hot-water faucet with his uninjured side. He leans back, motioning for Noct to hold them under the stream of warm water and plug the sink. Sloppily and with some difficulty, he manages to get his t-shirt over his head, holding his hand out for the towels afterward. Noctis hands them over freely.

Ignis does as much as he can on his own. He holds pressure to his shoulder with a dry towel while the others soak. Noctis follows every instruction, from fetching his lighter out of his blazer’s breast pocket to threading the needle meant for sutures. “It was not my intention,” he begins as he holds the needle shakily to the flame of his Zippo, “to do this in front of you. ‘M sorry, Noct.”

Noctis shakes his head, either confused or unbothered. Ignis casts him a look of regret, of apology. He isn’t sure if Noctis sees it, but he prays he does as he reaches for a wet towel to clean the blood away from the actual bullet wound.

“Here,” Noct chokes it out and the way it sounds, so sad and so afraid, breaks Ignis’ heart. Noct wrings a towel out over the sink with a sniffle, “Lemme do it.”

Noctis’ touch is… Unpracticed. It hurts, and the fabric of the towel being pressed too hard and too close to opened skin. The hiss that slips through his teeth is minimal, but the boy flinches back immediately.

“Around, not directly over,” the elder instructs, trying to keep his voice even. “Carefully. Light hands, alright?”

Noct nods, and then tentatively goes back to the task. He does as he’s told, though his pressure is uneven and he scrapes over the wound several times; Ignis takes it without complaint, and stifles his noises of discomfort. Eventually, the boy stops, swallowing thickly.

“...Okay. I think it’s done.”

“Well done. Well done, thank you,” Ignis lets out the breath he’d been holding, and looks to the needle. “I don’t want you to watch th--”

“I want to do it,” Noctis says quickly, wiping at his eyes with the back of his wrist. “I-- I want to help.”

Ignis blinks. “No, Noct,” he’s firm in his decision. “You’ve seen enough. You need to… Gather your things. We need to go, within the next half hour. Quickly, please, we’ve not got all--”

“I’m gonna help!” Noctis, too, is apparently firm in his decision. “I need want to learn. What if you get hurt again? You promised not to leave.”

Ignis can’t argue with him. He sighs, tipping his head back to look at the ceiling - _stubborn_ boy, he thinks as though most of it wasn’t his own influence. “Alright.”

It’s a strenuous, very painful process. Noctis is _unpracticed_ , and suturing the entry and exit wounds is a test of patience. It takes reciting phone numbers, bank codes, passwords, birthdays and death dates galore to make it through the stitching. Noctis is constantly apologizing, constantly flinching, and his shaking hands don’t help to ease the needle through torn skin. He bites back curses, both to himself and to the one that had shot him; To the one…

“...Noctis, how are you feeling?”

“Okay.”

“Noct.”

There isn’t a response. Noctis just keeps doing as he was instructed, tying off the last of the stitches on the exit wound. Ignis speaks again to break the silence, “The truth, please.”

Noctis’ movements stop entirely now, though he remains trembling and unsteady. “I… I didn’t really want to shoot him.”

Ignis’ heart shatters in his chest. He sighs through his nose, moving stiffly to pet the boy’s hair with his good side. He whispers for Noctis to stay put, standing slowly to go back out into the main room. He grabs a clean shirt from a plastic bag near Noct’s things, managing to get it on with a but of a fight. He re-enters the bathroom, draining a bloody sink and running warm water. “Here. Your turn, I’m going to clean you up.”

He does. Ignis makes sure to scrub under Noct’s nails, tries to remove as much of the staining as he can. It isn’t perfect, certainly not enough to wash away the impact of the heir’s first kill, but enough to… Not draw attention, should they step out. Ignis gives him a change of clothes, and packs their things, covered in blood or no.

His head still aches from where it was slammed into a corner, throbbing at the exact point of contact. Behind his eyes, too, hurts - he knows for certain he shouldn’t be up and moving, let alone planning to drive. But they cannot risk staying for fear of being found, nor can they stay in a room with a body growing cold.

Noctis is changed and Ignis puts their things in the trunk, keeping a look-out from both sides of the hallway to make sure they aren’t being watched. It’s a miracle they aren’t checked on, and a miracle no one comes to investigate the commotion - a miracle Ignis absolutely takes advantage of, gathering their bearings before walking Noctis out, guiding him with hands over the boy’s eyes.

He may have done the killing, but he didn’t need to see what a body looks like in detail, dead and cold outside of television’s tame portrayal. He doesn’t need to see the blood, the clots, and the bits of brain matter decorating the walls and floor.

The door is shut behind them. The lights are turned off. Ignis makes Noctis sit in the front, so he can wake him should his dreams begin to turn bitter.

The dashboard reads 9:07 PM. Ignis knows the only reason the police haven’t shown is because they’re both lucky, and far-removed. He takes a bottle of painkillers from the center console, pours out as many as he can swallow dry, and grits his teeth while he waits for them to kick in. The engine turns over and catches, Ignis wipes the blood from his glasses.

They drive, and Noctis doesn’t sleep. His tears don’t stop.

Ignis’ blood is turning icy in his veins. Not because of Noct, or for him - on the contrary, he is the only thing keeping Ignis thawed. His blood runs cold for those who seek his charge, for those who would let him know what it means to take a life, for those who would put that burden on his shoulders.

Then again, Ignis thinks as he bites the inside of his cheek, I should have been better. I should have killed, so Noctis didn’t have to.

I will kill, he thinks as he glances in the rear-view mirror, and it will all be for him.

  
And it will feel _good_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "The boy. Tell me where he is. Or I can promise you, without a fraction of dishonesty, that I will paint these drab walls with what little is inside your skull."


	3. A Conman's Desperation.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ignis doesn't remember the last time he's mourned, the last time he's cried.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oh yeah if you're squeamish about light/medium gore, this might not be the chap for u friends

It’s been one week. 

One week of nothing but driving, sleeping, and driving again. People loyal to Regis, loyal to Noctis and his family, have been slowly but surely coming out of the woodwork. They come with late-night calls, hurried coordinates and destinations that should prove safe, at least for a few weeks. All places on the west coast which, frankly, they aren’t even close to yet.

Time is spent absently, entertaining one certain heir and cleaning still-healing wounds. Ignis does his best to keep Noctis occupied, to keep him happy, to keep him sane. 

That isn’t always easy.

Noctis has been different, since shooting one of Ardyn’s men. Shooting, Ignis says, because he doesn’t want to think about what he actually did - he unloaded a magazine into someone’s torso, an act he should have never had to do on his own. It haunts Ignis, behind the wheel in the early hours of the morning, listening to Noct’s soft snores. He thinks about the flash of the muzzle, the way his charge shut his eyes before pulling the trigger. The way he was so obviously frightened just  _ holding  _ a weapon, let alone using it. He shouldn’t have had to bear that weight. 

Ignis often finds himself wishing he could remove it from his shoulders.

He tries his best. He does what he can when Noctis cries after unpleasant dreams, when he awakes from a night terror shaking, sobbing. He comforts, hushes, and dries tears. Offers water, a snack, and some time to sit by the road and watch the cars go by. Talk about the weather, talk about memories. Ignis wishes he could put the memory of his first kill on the back of a car, and watch it drive off out of sight. Forever.

Ignis can distract, though. He’s always been excellent at distracting Noctis from nightmares. Tonight is no different. 

The topic of discussion, naturally, has come to be fish after a run for ice cream late at night. Noctis had woken up from something unpleasant, and Ignis has found over the years that something sweet tends to do the trick just fine, in terms of consolement. 

“Oh, yeah! And-- And Pacu fish, they’ve got teeth like people do!” Noct says as they walk down a long hall. 

“Is that so?” Ignis smiles, adjusting his glasses. This isn’t new information for him, however… Noctis doesn’t need to know that. “Do go on. I am ever hungry for knowledge, you know.” 

Noctis laughs. It’s soft, and warm, and it makes him want to lean down and pull Noct into a suffocating hug. Something protective, something warm, something kind. The kind of hug that will shield him from ever-present evil, from thugs, from men whose greed is immeasurable. From monsters and demons, physical and mental. 

“Well, they’re kind of, um…” Noct pauses, seemingly searching for the words. “Herbervores, yeah.” 

Ignis chuckles, “That’s  _ herbivores,  _ Noct.” 

“That’s what I said!” Noct insists with frustration, and it only causes Ignis to let loose another chuckle. “Kinda. Sometimes they eat smaller fish.” 

Ignis glances down, opening his mouth to speak, when something very distinct catches his ear.

_ Ping. _

It’s a lone sound. Ignis stops, and holds out a hand to stop Noctis as well. He can feel the confused stare of a child, but he keeps his ears open - it sounded out of place. It sounded wrong. It sounded like…

A dropped bullet. 

Ignis puts a hand on Noct’s back. “Inside. Now.” His voice is soft, near silent. 

“Wh--”

“Don’t ask questions now, Noctis. Inside.”

Ignis hands Noct the keycard to their room from within the breast pocket of his blazer, and slowly trails after his charge. He keeps alert, focused and eyes in as many places as they can possibly be. He listens carefully when he turns his back to the hall completely, moving to follow after Noctis with haste. 

He hears the footsteps before he sees Noctis point over his shoulder. 

His body kicks into gear before his mind, and Ignis ducks to narrowly avoid what must’ve been an attempted pistol-whip. He can hear the sound of the swipe, and the fight is on.

It’s something of an easy task, disarming one so sloppy, even with a shoulder that still aches from previous injury. It’s even easier to get this hired killer, no doubt one of Ardyn’s, immobilized on the ground, an arm twisted behind their back and his switchblade to their jugular. 

“Surely,” Ignis says, hardly even short of breath, “You didn’t think it would be  _ that  _ easy.” 

There isn’t a reply. Ignis glances up to look at Noctis, but is faced with an empty hall; He must have gone inside, as he was told. Good, Ignis thinks, he can kill without worry of innocent eyes seeing something too ghastly. 

His switchblade never breaks the skin. He moves to finish his job, and the entire world drowns black.

 

There are mutters. Whispers, faint speaking between waking moments blurred by eyelashes. In stark contr ast, there are conscious moments of silence, all spent floating with a strong ache behind the eyes. Down the spine, through the skull and under the jaw. 

Waking moments turn to waking overall. Ignis’ eyes come open with a bit of force and determination, but his eyelids still feel heavy. The room is dark, the only light source being the window yellow lamplight shines through. At first it isn’t recognizable; Not with how blurry it all is from his apparent lack of glasses. But after a few moments of study, he can make out nearby objects, like… A shower head, and a bar of soap, and a rack of towels.

Ignis blinks again, trying to drive away the pain stabbing into his skull. It’s at the base of it, and he reaches up absently to rub at it. There’s a sensitive, decent-sized welt and dry blood in his hair. He swallows and finds it painful, like someone’s stuffed a fistful of cotton down his throat. Standing is difficult, but with one hand on the wall and the other outstretched to catch on the counter, it comes easy enough.

He takes a moment to gather his bearings and arrange his thoughts. Ignis looks up, and his eyes catch himself in the mirror through his bangs - he looks like hell. That much is very, very clear. It isn’t a surprise, but his blurry reflection is jarring even still. He tears unfocused eyes away to look around, to try and spark at least something outside of a world of discombobulated pain.

Ignis’ first true, coherent thought is of the fact that Noctis has undoubtedly been taken.

Ignis doesn’t try to deny it as he looks back at his own image. The pit in his stomach, the weight in his heart, and anger burning like hot coals in his veins is enough to tell him that he’s been separated from the only person in this life that matters. Noctis has been torn from him, and those who have him are going to hurt him for information he  _ doesn’t have.  _ He runs a hand over his mouth, and his throat tightens painfully; It’s coming back. All of it. 

Two voices. Two hitmen. One must have gotten the jump on him before he could stop it. This bathroom, decorated with travel-sized bottles, a tube of toothpaste, and two toothbrushes beside each other in a plastic cup…

This is their bathroom. They locked him in his and Noct’s bathroom.

For what, Ignis thinks as he seethes with anger, why did they let me live? He can’t manage to unearth a reason. In all of his years,  _ never  _ would he leave an optional target alive. He never has, and he never would, especially if the order was to take just one. Kill the other to make sure no one comes back around like bad karma. This is a joke, this has got to be some sort of sick joke or a dream, there is no reason he should be--

Ignis inhales audibly.  _ Oh. _

The gears begin to turn, and quickly. Ignis looks to the door, breathing even, deep breaths. He taps twice on the door and steps back, running a quick hand through his hair before lifting a leg and  _ slamming  _ his foot against the wood near the handle. It takes two solid kicks to put a hole in the door, and by then, it’s easy to open. He manages to get himself free, and pauses before actually stepping out into the main room. 

Please, he prays to whatever power above, please don’t let him be dead.

Ignis steels himself, and steps out with his eyes closed. He opens them, just a little, and when he does he’s sure to hold his breath. 

There’s nothing. The room is a disaster, torn to shreds. There hasn’t been one stone unturned, that much Ignis can tell. With as much that’s been disturbed, he can tell they either found what they were looking for, or nothing at all. With the lack of blood and lack of Noct’s body, he can assume they found nothing. 

A quick sweep of the room, and he’s got his information. Noct’s belongings are here, and with them, his figurine; It remains safe, at the bottom of the duffle bag that Noctis last had it in. It’s kissed, and placed on the desk as the search continues on. There’s blood speckled here and there, undoubtedly from the fight the boy put up. Dressers and drawers are overturned. Nothing was taken, it seems, except for Noctis. 

Ignis checks the clock. 6:38 AM.

There is nothing left, Ignis finds, in the way of unadulterated anger. No, that was let out kicking in the bathroom door. What’s left instead is a terrifying mix of cold calculation and a want - no,  _ a need  _ \- for revenge. Not one shot, one kill revenge, but slow, bloody, sobbing revenge. 

Ignis knows he’ll get that, in likely some twenty minutes to a half hour.

If they couldn’t find what they were looking for and left him alive, it’s likely someone else is going to come back and sweep the room again. Someone better than a triggerfinger alone, someone built like Ignis himself is - a thinker, an analyzer. Someone who can see what a killer and killer alone cannot. Someone skilled in extracting pain, and information not attainable by environment, but by slip of tongue. Someone who expects him unconscious. 

This is why he was left alive. A failsafe, in case Noctis is killed in torture or really, truly, doesn’t know. He is the final information vault. With Noct gone, the lock has been drilled. 

When Ignis peeks out the door to check down the hallway, he doesn’t find the blade he’s undoubtedly lost - he does, however, find his glasses, miraculously in decent shape in nearby shrubbery. With a glance up to whatever higher power is absolutely laughing at him, he sets to work. He’ll need bindings. 

Which are easily fashioned out of the nearest objects, just so happening to be cheap bed sheets. 

The room is silent, save for the sounds of ripping fabric. It isn’t hard to tear them, and sheets are turned into thick strips and are laid out over one of the beds. Favorite switchblade no longer readily available, he suspects he’ll need to get a bit… Creative, this time around. A plastic bag is snatched up off of the floor, and Ignis takes a peek outside the curtains to look down both ends of the hall. 

 

There’s no one. 

He makes a quick break for the car to fetch what is  _ supposed _ to be a roadside repair kit. Out of the glove compartment comes his .45, along with its fitted suppressor. All that’s left to do is sit inside and wait.

It’s a difficult task, and Ignis sits on the floor beside the door. Waiting like a snake waits for the rat to come too close, waiting like a spider within its web. Despite the hardship of being so, he is patient, and lets idle daydreams of Noct watching his favorite cartoons dominate his thoughts. 

It seems like hours, until there’s a knock on the door. 

“Branch County, PD. Open the door.” 

Ignis’ ears perk at the sound of a male voice, and he slowly slides up the wall and grabs the plastic bag sitting near him. He pushes his glasses up just slightly, and he waits again. He knows without needing to look that this is no officer; There’s no reason to have the police knocking. This man has been sent to finish off an ill-performed task.

This is confirmed when the lock on the door begins to click mechanically, and the handle shifts and fidgets. There’s a soft whirring noise, and Ignis knows he’s got three seconds. Two. 

One. 

Suffocating a man to exhaustion isn’t as easy as it looks in the movies. It takes patience and a knowledge of death to understand where the line is. The line between living and non, the line between passing out and passing away. Ignis has this line mapped, and it’s been ingrained since his younger years. The process, however, is expedited by using the plastic bag to both blur vision and cut off oxygen. 

By the time this man wakes, Ignis has tied him to a chair with every knot he can remember off the top of his head. 

It doesn’t take too long at all. Fifteen, twenty minutes at maximum, and it’s fifteen minutes spent not thinking of Noctis, but of ways to creatively spill a little blood. Or, in this case, a lot of blood. The man rouses with a groan, immediately flexing his bony fingers and jerking against the bed sheets that bind him to both arms of a desk chair. 

“Awake, are we?” Ignis keeps his voice quiet. 

There’s no response. Ignis imagines that it’s difficult to talk with a mouth full of tie fabric. His calculated eyes meet those of his enemy, and he can see the gears turning as they likely would in his own head. As they have in the past. He’s trying to figure an escape plan.

“I wouldn’t do that,” Ignis says, pushing himself up from the bed he’d been sitting on to stand before the man in the chair. “Even if you do manage to weasel your way out of those binds, it isn’t as though I’ve got plans to let you go free.” 

He thinks there’s a mutter of ‘oh, shit’ behind that gag. He suppresses something of a malicious smile. 

“Now,” Ignis begins, fixing his glasses, “Let us start from the very beginning, shall we? You have information regarding one Noctis Lucis Caelum. I want that information,” He steps aside to pop open the toolkit on the desk, and looks back to the one bound. “Be aware, however, that for every lie you tell me, I’m going to cut something off; And I promise you, sir,  _ it will be something you miss. _ ”

The machinations behind the man’s eyes cease, and the thought is replaced with fear. Ignis steps over once more, to stand in front of him, and tilts his chin up with the middle joint of his index finger. He looks no more than twenty-three, darker-skinned and very, very fresh. He’s no more than a child, Ignis thinks in the back of his mind. No more than a boy with a gun. 

Well. Serves him right for fucking around with malevolent politicians. 

“I’m going to remove your gag. Scream, and I’ll remove your tongue with a pair of wire cutters. A very painful process, I may add. Nod if you understand.” 

There’s a nod, even if slight. Ignis removes the tie slowly, watching the man rearrange his jaw with a wince. “So,” Ignis says, in a tone nearing cheery, “Information. Where is Noctis?” 

“I don’t know who that is.” 

Ignis sighs, dropping his head and crossing his arms. “Off to a good start.” He reaches over to pick the wire cutters out of his toolkit, and pushes up the sleeves of his shirt. He fixes the gag back into place despite protests, and kneels before the man’s left hand. “Did you know it takes roughly fifteen pounds per square inch to break a finger? Resilient, these. I’m sure during your studies you’ve seen as much. How they bend and move with such a wonderful flexibility.” 

There’s a whine from above. It feeds the fire. 

“I’ll start slowly. You’re only doing as you’ve been instructed. There’s honor in that.” 

There’s more fervent struggle now, and the man attempts to close his fingers before Ignis can stop him. A futile attempt it is, and Ignis keeps hold of his two middle fingers. “Last chance.” 

There’s more muffled lies of denial, and Ignis shrugs before applying his strength to bending the man’s fingers backwards. There’s a sickening - rather, a  _ satisfying  _ snap, one right after the other, and a muffled yelp. The bones grate as they’re released, Ignis’ sensitive ears picking up the sound. They shift visibly beneath the skin, moving like some sort of parasite crawls below when they’re released. 

The man sits, breathing like a shot buck, trying to keep himself composed. “I’ll ask once more. Where is Noctis Lucis Caelum?” Ignis reaches up to move the gag again, down, and then back.

There’s more lies, more denial, and Ignis moves to copy the same movement to the man’s opposite hands. The wire cutters he kept on are spread, and moved to his left thumb; Closed just enough to feel the sharpness. 

“The boy.” 

There’s muffled words that sound as though this man is swearing up and down he’s got no idea where New York’s favorite boy seems to have gone. These muffled words still sound like lies. So Ignis doesn’t warn before he begins, applying exceptional force at the last joint of his thumb. It takes a bit of effort, and there’s certainly quite a bit of screaming, but none too loud behind the gag. The blood comes fairly easily and quickly, staining carpet and chair alike. It smears on other fingers, on Ignis’ own denims, and over his own hands. 

The bone proves a bit tough to cut through. So Ignis takes up a bit of wire from his kit, and stretches it like floss over and around his fingers. 

“They say wire can cleave someone clean in half if applied with enough speed,” he says, moving to stand beside his unfinished work, “Though I think bone might take a bit of effort. Back and forth, you know. Tedious.” 

Ignis feeds the wire through mangled skin, the blood coming down the wire and coating some of it thickly. There’s a squish, some wet sound as the wire comes to reopen the muscle and veins that rest there. “I want the boy.” 

The gag is removed with one hand, and the man seems to break his previous story of ‘do not recall’. “I’m not telling you shit.” 

Ignis cocks a brow, and moves the gag back into place. “Not very friendly, then.” 

It takes considerable effort to get through that bone, but the sounds are beautiful. Not the screams, but rather the sound of bone splintering and cracking as it’s forced. When he does manage to get through, the thud the appendage makes hitting the floor is wonderful. There’s blood pouring out, screams needing to be muffled with extra bed sheet. The severed thumb is pushed aside out of the way with a careless hum, and the man’s hand twitches with what’s very clear pain and shock. 

“Quiet down, quiet down,” Ignis says with clear annoyance, watching the tears fall freely. “It’s only a thumb. It’s going to be much worse if you continue to lie to me.”

Ignis waits for the sobs to quiet just the barest bit, before removing the gag with a warning to be silent. “I want locations. Names.”

“I can’t, you gotta understand they’ll kill m--”

“ _ I  _ will kill you if you don’t tell me where they’re taking him.”

“I can’t!” 

Ignis finds his frustration growing from a simmer to a boil. His fist comes into quick contact with the other’s face once, and then twice; He feels his knuckles split from the force, and can hear some sort of pop under his fist. It’s gratifying, though only momentarily, to hear the groan of pain that sounds. “You’d better try.”

“...He’s… Wanted.”

Ignis rolls his eyes. “That much is clear considering you’re before me bound in a bloody chair while I stick you as many times as I can before you bleed to death.” He fixes his glasses, smearing blood onto the bridge of his nose as he gingerly goes for his cigarettes in his blazer’s breast pocket. Careful not to bloody the fabric, he retrieves his pack and his lighter. 

He lights the end of a cigarette and inhales long and hard, eyebrows furrowing and eyes shutting. “Forgive me,” he adds, “I know smoking indoors is a veritable sin.” 

He takes two long drags, the sound of muffled panting and dripping blood filling his ears. It’s starting to smell like blood, too, and it’s… Comforting. In an animalistic way. It distracts him and leads him away from thoughts of Noct’s wellbeing. Ignis tilts his head back and exhales smoke toward the ceiling, before placing the cigarette back between relaxed lips. 

“When I’d first learned that fifteen pounds of pressure per square inch could break a smaller bone, I was a bit amazed,” Ignis begins his story anew, looking over what he’s got in his kit. “I was just a boy, at the time. No older than twelve. I remember asking myself, then, what of the denser, sturdier bones? The femur, the tibia. I soon found it takes one-hundred and sixty pounds of crushing force to break one of those.” 

When he glances over to ash his cigarette, the look he gets is both dazed and frightened. There’s horror, there, as if this mediocre excuse for a professional hasn’t seen anything of Ignis’ caliber before. It doesn’t make him smile, not externally, but it does bring something along the lines of grotesque fulfillment. He doesn’t warn, this time, nor ask any questions before he goes for the man’s opposite, still attached thumb.

The process is the same. The skin is torn out of the way, and the wire is fed through to take out the bone. By the time Ignis is done, he can feel the heat coming off of his own cigarette; It’s nearing the filter, and the taste is starting to leave him. Taking it out of his mouth with a practiced movement, he presses the still-burning end to the still-bleeding stub of the other’s thumb. The blood hisses, the smoke immediately ceasing to rise. Muffled screams, cries, and a soft hiss from Ignis himself sound.

“That’s going to certainly get infected,” he says offhandedly, now going for his .45. He checks the clip and the chamber, making sure it’s got a bullet ready to be fired. Ignis presses the end of the suppressor to the other man’s head, and pushes forward. “The boy.” 

“I--”

There’s a sharp knock on the door, and Ignis’ head whips to look towards it. There’s a woman’s voice, this time, soft but to the point. 

“Housekeeping.”

He looks to the one at the other end of his gun and holds a finger to his lips, and turns to look back at the clock. Yes, it’s past seven AM, now. Housekeeping seems regular. Still, he takes a quiet step to look through the door viewer to confirm. The voice’s intentions were genuine, and Ignis takes a moment to quietly clear his throat. 

“Oh, no thank you. Come again in an hour or so?” His voice is casual even as he keeps the barrel of a gun pointed toward a man, down two thumbs and his dignity, bound to a chair. 

There’s no response, but instead the sound of a cart wheeling away on rusted bearings, and Ignis lets out a sigh of relief. “You, my friend,” he says quietly, returning to press cold metal to skin. “Had better have money in your wallet. That poor housekeeper is going to have some trouble getting your blood out of the carpet. I’d like you to leave her a gracious tip.” 

Ignis presses a nail into the open wound of the man’s hand, and he presses hard. “As I was saying. The boy. Tell me where he is. Or I can promise you, without a fraction of dishonesty, that I will paint these drab walls with what little is inside your skull."

There’s a weary nod, this time. Ignis quickly removes the gag, and he finally hears what he’s been longing for. It’s the blood loss, Ignis is sure, but nonetheless, he hadn’t expected an answer quite so soon. 

“Hell’s Kitchen,” comes the slurred reply, “One of Ardyn's safehouses, he's tryin’ to get the--” 

“That’s all I needed to know.” 

Ignis doesn’t hesitate before pulling the trigger, just once. Movements still, and blood splatters against white drywall like a beautiful work of art, to be sold in the various galleries across New York. Staring as he lowers his gun, Ignis is reminded of the times when he would try to take Noctis to one while his father worked; He’s reminded of Noct’s absent staring, his boredom for those kinds of things, and the way he would brighten when Ignis suggested they go for ice cream, instead. 

Ignis packs their things, making sure to have a fresh change of clothes for Noctis. He rinses himself of blood, cleans his glasses, and changes. He doesn’t want to think of Noct, or if he’s crying. He doesn’t want to think about the possibility that he’s hungry, that he’s thirsty, or that he’s cold. Ignis doesn’t want to think about the methods they’ll go to to extract unavailable information. 

When he gets into the car, the .45 is unloaded and stowed. 

When he puts the keys into the ignition, he doesn’t move.

When Ignis doesn’t move, and when the keys hang idly in the ignition, his throat closes painfully. He removes his glasses and lets his eyes water for just a moment; He thinks of Noctis asleep in the back, he thinks of Noctis playing in his own home, he thinks of Noctis saying goodnight to his father. The fox figurine he’d grabbed on the way out sits in his lap, and he idly toys with it. Ignis doesn’t remember the last time he’s mourned, the last time he’s cried. 

Inhaling, Ignis puts the fox into the center console, tightens his gloves, and slides his glasses back on. He clears his throat, turns the engine over, and grips the wheel. 

I’ll not lose you, he thinks without sadness, I made you a promise.

“I intend to keep that promise, Noctis.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this was mostly self indulgent lmao. ignis is just as much psychological torture as he is physical


	4. A Father's Love.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things don't go exactly as planned.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i am so fucking sorry for what you're about to read

Hell’s Kitchen, New York. 3:01 AM.

Ignis hasn’t wasted time. Getting back to New York and catching up to Noctis’ captors occupies his every waking moment, and he’s lost count of how many times he’s seen the sunrise consecutively. Motel rooms are rented hourly, for showers and the minimum amount of sleep to keep him moving. Caffeine is basic sustenance, until Ignis’ hands shake beneath the gloves wound tightly over the steering wheel.

It’s three in the morning when he enters the district proper. It’s home, these streets, and he’s comfortable here. Confident in his ability to find Noctis, to protect him and get him out without a problem. It’s only a matter of tracking known operatives lurking in Ardyn’s network to pinpoint an exact location.

Ignis sits in the driver’s seat, parked beside a curb, tapping away at his phone. A majority of the contacts in his phonebook have been killed or deemed missing, but one last run-through doesn’t hurt - especially in circumstances like these. The minutes are ticking away, and each moment he sits is another Noctis could be spending in pain. Each moment he doesn’t make an effort to call someone, to get information, is another Noctis could be spending alone.

In the middle of this, his phone screen goes black of its own accord, and a Caller ID appears on screen.

Unknown.

Ignis hesitates. An index finger hovers over the red ‘decline’ circle - but the risk of denying outweighs the reward. So he swipes green, and makes sure he speaks first.

“Who is this.” He keeps his voice firm; There’s no time for games, no time for teasing calls.

“Color me a regular good samaritan.”

It’s a woman’s voice, lower and nonchalant. Ignis’ brows furrow as he adjusts his glasses, the voice not registering in his mind. “What do you want.”

“To help. Now I’m no idiot, I know what this looks like. If I were you, I’d be skeptical, too. In fact, I’d probably hang up by now.”

“Well, we’re nearing that. Give me a reason not to.”

“I know where your boy is.”

Ignis’ blood freezes in his veins, and he nearly drops his phone. Whoever this is, she’s playing her cards right; If he wasn’t listening before, he certainly is now, and it takes all he has to keep his composure and keep his thoughts from racing as quickly as his heart is. His index finger taps quickly, rhythmically, against the back of his phone as he thinks. His mind, for once, is coming up blank.

“You gonna say somethin’ instead of lookin’ like a fish outta water?” She seems to be nearing annoyance, and Ignis clears his throat.

“Let’s say for a moment that I don’t believe you. What then?”

“Then you don’t believe me, and I get to stand sideline while Ardyn and company executes a ten-year-old in some… Eleven, twelve hours.”

Ignis’ breath catches, and he looks out both passenger and driver’s side windows. He checks the dashboard clock again, and inhales softly. “Why would you want to help me if you work with Ardyn?”

“I’m a cold-hearted, cruel bitch, mister Scientia. But I don’t kill brats who don’t even know their multiplication tables. That’s fucked up, even for me.”

Ignis doesn’t answer, tipping his head back. He stays silent, evaluating his options. On one hand, whoever this woman is could truly be a friend; She could be an invaluable asset, one that would lead him to Noct’s safe return. On the other, she could be a distraction set up by Ardyn to make killing his charge all the easier.

“This is your only offer. Take it or don’t.”

Ignis clenches his jaw. It’s now or never. “Where are you?”

“Look up.”

 

\--

 

Ignis finds his mysterious caller atop a roof building not too far from his car. She’s leaned against the roof’s railing, a rifle nearly as big as she is beside her. She’s dressed in black, her hair tied back, wearing a smile that only a killer is capable of making. He’s careful, index finger twitching as his blazer brushes against the grip of the pistol in its holster.

“You’re kind of a stud up close, huh?” She says, and Ignis doesn’t smile. She rolls her eyes, apparently at his lack of enthusiasm, and holds her hand out. “Aranea Highwind. I already know who you are.”

Ignis’ eyes flick down to her hand, and he doesn’t extend his own. “We’ve business.”

“Oh, fuck’s sake! I’m not going to stab you, Jesus!” Aranea’s hand drops against her leg with a light slap, and this time, it’s Ignis’ turn to roll his eyes. Either way, she moves to begin packing up her rifle in the case on the ground with a long sigh.

“Start talking.”

“For one of those dad types, I thought you’d be more polite,” Aranea says, earning another roll of the eyes from Ignis. “Anyways, they’ve got your boy holed up on West 43rd Street and 10th Avenue. Top floor of some old apartment building, one of the shitty ones the city shut down ‘cause the rats were the size of small dogs.”

Ignis nods, turning to leave. With the information committed to memory, he knows he no longer needs this woman. As he turns, moving to head back to the door he came out of, Aranea stands and hauls her rifle case over her shoulder. “I’m coming with you.”

Ignis tightens his gloves, and adjusts his glasses. “I’m perfectly capable on my own.”

“Sure,” Aranea shrugs, “If you feel like getting surrounded by eight, nine guys without a sharpshot in the roof looking out for you.”

Ignis pauses, taking those words to heart. She unfortunately has a point; Taking down Ardyn’s men without someone having his back may prove difficult. Especially without a blade for close quarters, and a limited number of bullets.

“How do I know you won’t kill Noctis and I both when we’re done?”

“I told you,” Aranea says, “I don’t kill little kids. Not even for a couple thousand bucks.”

Ignis looks her over, and carefully. Her green eyes are honest, staring straight into his own. If she’s lying, she’s lying with her entire being - and for just a fraction of a moment, he trusts her. His walls don’t move, his demeanor doesn’t change, but he allows himself this. Not to trust her as a person, but to trust her as a damn good shot. Aranea shrugs, scoffing for the hundredth time. “So we got a deal?”

Ignis looks her up and down once more, and nods tightly. “We’ve a deal.”

 

\--

 

They decide to make the drive to the building, with Aranea sitting passenger.

“You don’t really have much of a choice but waltzing through the front door,” she says with a borrowed cigarette between her fingers, “But I’ll have your back from the roof. I can take care of the guys on the top floors around your kid, but you have to handle what I can’t see.”

“You’ll watch the entrances?”

“Like a fuckin’ hawk.”

“And Ardyn,” Ignis begins, watching the street signs pass and counting them, “Is he at our destination?”

Aranea shakes her head, and takes a drag of her cigarette. “No. You better thank whatever God you pray to for that. He’s at the warehouse Noctis is supposed to get taken to, probably polishing up the bullet he plans to embed in his skull.”

Ignis has to keep from grinding his teeth at her words, instead gripping the steering wheel just a little tighter. They spend the rest of the ride in relative silence, the only sound being tobacco burning and the engine purring as they traverse the streets. When Ignis drops Aranea off at the building she’s to watch from, she hands him something, with a warning to take care of himself. It’s a butterfly knife, black handled with a red latch. It’s opened, spun over his knuckles once or twice to weigh it, and he thanks her. It will likely come in handy.

Ignis circles around the building he’s to enter twice. It’s red brick, dark, with dusty windows. The front entrance has scaffolding hanging over it and around the length of the building, and it’s clear that whatever repairs were left unfinished, likely due to lack of funds. The front door is chained, bolted shut, which means the only way in is through the back alley, because of _course_ it is.

He parks a bit up the street, and makes his way around the back. His steps are quiet, nearing completely inaudible, and he’s sure to keep it that way when he makes it into the building itself. It’s not easy, but the locks are weakened and rusted from years of disuse, and it speeds the process of gaining entrance.

The building itself is a maze of unearthed pipes, hanging plywood, and creaking floors. It’s fragile, that much Ignis can tell, and keeping his steps silent is a challenge. Still, pistol in hand and lowered, he makes his way up to the upper floors.

The lower the floors, the less guard density. Aranea was right, Ignis finds as he reaches the third floor, going in alone may not have ended spectacularly well. He thanks her internally each time a body he hasn’t touched falls, each time a gunshot comes screaming by his ear to land into the man next to him. The sound of glass shattering becomes a good sound, it means death is just seconds away - but not for him. Never for him.

It’s the sound of soft sniffles that spurs Ignis on, quicker and faster.

He doesn’t check the rooms as he moves through the uppermost floor, not minding the sound of his steps. He doesn’t mind how the floors are loud, he doesn’t mind the fact that there could be twelve men surrounding Noctis - it’s his voice, it’s that crying, that drives him infinitely toward one goal.

Holding him again.

He follows the sound to a room at the end of the hall, and when he turns in with his gun raised, he nearly drops the damn thing on his foot.

Noctis is bound to a chair, knees bloody and hair mussed. His lip looks split even from this distance, and he’s black and blue with bruises virtually everywhere. The closer Ignis comes to him, the darker they seem, and it makes him boil with a rage he’s not entirely sure he was capable of feeling until this exact moment. Noctis is gagged, the fabric bloody, and Ignis draws a cross just barely over his chest with a soft mutter of, ‘Oh, Jesus Christ’.

His thoughts span hours but his movements last for seconds. Noctis isn’t entirely conscious, on closer inspection, but the more he jostles him, the more he wakes.

The small boy inhales sharply when Ignis takes the tinted fabric out of his mouth, tossing it to the side.

“ _Iggy!_ ” He says, almost as if he doesn’t believe it, and Ignis bites at the inside of his cheek to keep from taking longer than necessary.

“I’m here, Noctis, I’m here. I’m right here, you’re alright,” His whispers are soft, but the swipes of his knife to unbind Noctis aren’t. The duct tape holding him so tightly is easy to remove, and he’s careful to get it off of his skin and onto the floor. “You’re alright, you’re alright. I’m here. I’m here, Noct.”

Noctis is crying, or at least, it sounds like he is. He isn’t producing any tears, but there are old tracks on dirtied and blood-splattered cheeks, and he’s shaking harder than Ignis has ever seen. He’s coated in dry blood, coated in cuts with bruises so deep they must hit bone. Ignis gathers him carefully, taking just a moment to sit with him on the floor.

Noctis dry sobs into his blazer, and Ignis holds him so tightly he’s sure it’s suffocating. He smells like dust, like cold and like fear, and it makes him put one gloved hand on the back of the boy’s head. He pets him softly, hushing and whispering to him, but Noct’s shaking doesn’t stop and neither does his crying.

When he pulls away, it isn’t much. The split on his lip looks bad, which begs the question…

“Noctis, open your mouth,” Ignis urges quietly, and it doesn’t seem to quite go through. He sits still, sobbing so hard he chokes, and the elder pets gently over his face to try and coax him into it. “Please, Noct? Let me see.”

Noctis slowly does as he’s asked, jaw trembling and barely open. Ignis tilts his chin up just a little, to get a better look inside his mouth. When he does, he wishes he hadn’t; Noctis is missing _teeth_ in the back, bloody and raw holes where smaller molars used to be. He wipes a hand over his own mouth, shaking just as hard as Noctis - but less with fear, and more with anger. “Oh, Noct,” he breathes, moving to pull him back into a hug, “Come on. Come on, let’s get you out of here.”

Ignis stands, holding his charge’s hand tightly, making sure he can still walk at all. They start slow, and when Ignis looks up, he’s met with a familiar form.

...Ravus?

Ravus was one of Regis’ contacts, brother to Lunafreya - an internal doctor that seeks no answers and gets no lies, working at Lenox Hill Hospital not terribly far. Ignis has rung him not once, but several times, and never had he answered; Ignis assumed him dead, until just now. Something about his appearance isn’t right, though, and Ignis pulls Noctis just a little closer.

“Ravus, thank God,” Ignis says carefully, “I thought you’d been-- Nevermind it. I assume you’re working with Aranea, yes?”

Ravus doesn’t answer him. He stands, looking steeled, his mismatched eyes holding something in them that isn’t quite placeable. There’s a firearm in his right hand, silver, and Ignis’ eyes flick from that to his eyes, and back again. The tension is suddenly palpable, and the sense of dread suddenly crushes his chest and he knows, he _knows_ , Ravus isn’t here to help.

“Forgive me for this, Ignis.”

Ravus’ right hand moves and Ignis utters a swear, moving to fire his own weapon. He puts a hand on Noct’s head to have him duck down, and tries to yank the both of them away. There’s a yelp, a shattered window no doubt from Aranea, and Ravus bolts out of the doorway before any shots land properly.  

Ravus doesn’t come back for a round two. Ignis holsters his gun, and looks to Noctis.

He’s standing, looking at his own hands with wide eyes. His knees are shaking, and his shirt is slowly beginning to stick to him, dampening with something that looks impossibly red even against black. His palms are bloodied, and it’s beginning to drip down onto the dull white toes of his shoes, the sound loud and echoing against old walls. His lips are parted just barely, and his eyes are wild when they meet Ignis’ own.

Ignis makes a sound he’s positive he’s never made before when he moves to catch Noctis, whose knees have given in and hit the floor with a horrible _thud_. He’s quick to gather the boy in his arms, carefully, tearing off his blazer as best he can while keeping hold of Noct. Noctis is gasping, gripping at his button up loosely, but frantically, begging without words. Ignis chokes on his own saliva, pressing his jacket against Noct’s stomach. He tries to say something as they get to moving, tries to offer words of comfort, but the only thing that’s working is his legs. He’s sure he’s never flown down stairs so quickly, sure he’s never shouldered open a door with as much force as he does when they’re finally, finally, in the back alley he’d entered from.

Aranea comes around the corner, and she freezes.

“...Oh, fuck.”

Ignis moves past her, but Aranea’s quick to keep up. He feels her shove her hand into his slacks pocket, pulling out the keys. They’re on the same wavelength, on the same page and the same sentence.

“Lenox Hill,” Ignis manages, knowing that Lunafreya will be there, knowing that he’ll be okay if they can just get there in time. “Go, I--”

“You’re gonna sit in the back, I know,” Aranea says, picking her pace up to a near sprint, even with a case on her back. “I’ll bring the car up. Meet you halfway.”

Ignis doesn’t listen to her. He can’t, not with how hard he’s focusing on keeping Noct’s gaze steady, watching him blink. Counting his breaths, and trying to keep pressure on his stomach the best he can. He can still feel blood sinking into every inch of him, dripping onto his own shoes and getting all over his slacks, over his arms and up to his elbows. Noctis’ whimpers are audible in the night air, even over the sounds of distant traffic and hissing vents, dripping pipes and sirens.

Aranea meets him at the curb with the back door already open, and Ignis slides in and slams it shut behind him. He curls up on the far driver’s side with Noctis in both arms, looking down at him and trying to force a comforting smile.

“As fast as you can go,” He says to Aranea, “Please.”

She does as asked, and all Ignis can do is sit in the back, holding Noctis as he bleeds all over the interior.

“Noctis,” Ignis whispers, smile wavering as his eyes burn, “Do you remember what the closest star is?”

Noct’s brows furrow, but he nods ever slightly. “The sun…?”

“Very good,” Ignis nods, “Very good, that’s right. After that?”

Noctis blinks, and swallows damn near audibly. His blue eyes are glassed over, he’s horribly pale, and even his hair looks dull. “Noctis,” Ignis tries again, his desperation showing, “What’s after that? Do you remember?”

“Alpha Centauri…?”

“Yes, yes, that’s good,” Ignis tries to force another smile, “I’m so-- I’m so proud of you for remembering.”

Noctis doesn’t smile, and Ignis can feel Aranea’s eyes on the both of them. Quickly, he reaches into his pocket to produce his mobile, and sets it on the center console. “Dial Lunafreya, tell her-- Tell her to be outside.”

Aranea, once again, wordlessly does as asked. There’s background chatter that Ignis can hear as he returns his attention to Noctis, who coughs and clings as tightly as he can to his button-up. Ignis brings one bloodied thumb up to pet at his charge’s cheek, whispering positive things as often as he can; It won’t hurt much longer, try to stay awake for me, we’ll get to see Luna, isn’t that exciting?

They’re at the front of the hospital as quickly as they can manage, and with Aranea at the wheel, it doesn’t take long at all. Lunafreya and a few others are waiting to receive, and when they do, Luna’s heart looks like it’s breaking in her chest. She and Ignis trade glances - act now, talk later - and Noctis is swept from his arms, leaving a bloodied blazer in his wake.

It’s going to be handled as discreetly as it can be. Luna and several other nurses having been under Regis’ payroll grants them that privilege, keeps them off the books and hopefully, hidden from those who would seek to finish what they started.

Ignis sits in the back, unclipping his holster with his pistol and sliding it under the passenger’s seat. Aranea’s rifle case is on the floor of the backseat, and Aranea herself is working on pulling them into the proper parking lot.

Ignis is entirely numb. All he can do is look at his hands, at his shirt and his shoes, and think of the way Noctis looked at him as Luna pulled him from his arms. He can only think about how it should’ve been him, _God_ it should’ve been him, not Noctis. He thinks about trading places, trading pain and health, trading his life for Noct’s. If a bullet to his own head would fix that boy, Ignis would pull the trigger to end it himself. He’d unload the clip in his knees and save the last for his skull, if it meant all the blood on him rinsed clean and soaked back into Noctis.

Aranea’s voice brings him out of the trance he found himself in.

“...Hey. Scientia.”

Ignis’ eyes dart up to her, standing beside an open back door. Her arms are crossed, and for once, there’s no air of flippancy around her. “C’mon,” she says with a nod, “Let’s get that shit off you.”

Ignis doesn’t move. He can’t, his legs physically won’t move, and his vision is blurry even behind his glasses. He hears Aranea sigh, and out of the corner of his eye, sees her turn away just barely.

“...Ravus was supposed to help me help you. Guess he got cold feet, and, uh. Shot your boy. I tried to get him, I-- He wasn’t supposed to… He said he was on my side. I guess Ardyn must’ve threatened his sister, because h--”

“I don’t care,” Ignis says, without filter and without guilt. “I don’t care.”

“Yeah,” Aranea says with sincerity, “Yeah. I wouldn’t either.”

Ignis slides out after several minutes, letting Aranea shut the door behind him. The blood on him is still warm, and it makes him sick, and sad. It disgusts him, it frightens him, and it makes his stomach twist and heart ache in ways they never have before. He retrieves the keys and pops the trunk, moving to grab a water bottle and clean shirt. It wasn’t a shower, but it would have to do for now.

Seeing blood on himself was usually, in the past, satisfactory. It reminded Ignis of a job well done. Like this, though, it shames him, and smears his skin like liquid scarring that will never, ever come off. The water doesn’t seem to wash it away, and frankly, he’s sure not even concentrated hydrochloric acid would get it off at this point. Aranea stands respectfully with her back to him, arms still crossed.

Something warm is running down his face, something wet, and something uncomfortable. His throat is tight, and every inch of him hurts from being tense. He pushes his glasses up once he’s changed into a new shirt, and sits on the edge of the open trunk. The world only grows blurrier, and his face only gets warmer, and the only way the tension is released from his throat is by letting out something that sounds like choking.

Aranea doesn’t comfort him. She leaves him to it, and for that, he’s grateful.

He looks to the hospital building after some time, wiping his eyes with his thumbs and pushing his glasses back down, making a mental note to wash his face before going inside. He stares at the lit up rooms, the curtains unmoving, and wonders just which one Noctis will be in. Which one he might… Die in.

For once, Ignis’ brain is doing nothing. There’s no quick thinking, there’s nothing he can do but sit and wait, and it drives him insane. It drives him clean up a wall.

Noctis, Ignis manages, please, please be alright.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> just kidding im not sorry at all


	5. A Liar's Fear.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Noctis works on recovering, and Ignis gets a little emotional a lot of times.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry for the wait, got caught up with some irl stuff!

It takes forty-five minutes to get the blood out from under his nails.

Ignis has been standing in the hospital’s bathroom for that long, scrubbing and picking and hyper-fixating on the specks of red trapped beneath his nails. It’s stained to his skin, in certain places, on his wrists and on the side of his neck where Noct’s face rested the entirety of the ride to Lenox Hill.

He’s been waiting for hours. and Aranea left some time ago for coffee and food, offering to pick something up for Ignis. An offer he declined. He couldn’t stomach anything even if he wanted to; Not with Noctis laying in some bed, unconscious and bleeding to death. Nothing in the vending machines sound appealing, nothing in the cafeteria worth wasting money on. All there is to do is hurry up and wait.

The blood as gone is it can be, the reminders swirled down the drain, Ignis takes to the front waiting room again. He can’t help but fidget, but try to pick dry blood off of his slacks. Anything to pass the time. He can’t ever remember having so much trouble _waiting_ for something, waiting for news - Ignis wonders if this is how Noct always felt, when he said they had to wait.

The sun has risen by the time Lunafreya comes out, clipboard tucked to her side, and eyes wide.

Ignis stands immediately, moving to meet her halfway. “Luna? Luna, is he--”

“Rest assured,” she begins, offering a gentle smile, “He’s alive. He’s a very strong boy, Noctis. We’ve done what we can for now, but we need to keep him for observation.”

Ignis wipes a hand over his mouth, pulling Luna into a brief, but tight, hug. “Thank you,” he whispers, “Thank you, Luna.”

She pats his back, and offers another smile. “He should pull through just fine.”

Ignis moves to brush past her with a nod and another thanks, but a hand on his chest prevents him from going any farther. Her eyes are no longer as soft, instead holding determination in them - resolve. Ignis sighs barely through his nose, adjusts his glasses, and wordlessly agrees to having the conversation previously postponed for Noctis’ safety. They sit on the far end of the waiting room, and Luna keeps her blue eyes expectantly on Ignis.

“Ardyn had Noctis taken from me for information on Regis’ bank accounts,” Ignis begins, “I found him, and was assisted by the woman you’d seen with me earlier. Aranea. She, apparently--”

Ignis pauses, looking to Luna. Suddenly, something in him wasn’t entirely sure he could tell her exactly who put the bullet in Noctis. He wasn’t sure he could tell her that her brother, her flesh and blood, shot him likely to protect her. He watches Luna nod, as if to spur him on, but his lips part uselessly. They shut into a thin line, and Ignis steels himself.

“Ravus shot Noctis. Aranea had said she enlisted his assistance, and apparently, something made him change his mind.”

Luna’s eyes widen, and Ignis watches as shock and horror corrupts her expression. Her eyebrows turn upwards, her lips part and she looks as though she might cry, and there isn’t any consolation Ignis can find to give. He’s not sure he could manage to spare any heart, any time, for anyone that isn’t Noctis now. Even if she is the reason he’s alive, a fact for which he could not be more _grateful,_ his only emotion can be for Noctis. As everything always is. For Noctis.

“I see,” Luna finally chokes out, standing up. “...I can take you to Noctis, if you’d like to see him.”

It’s clear that she’s trying to hide her own emotion. For her service, for her invaluable assistance, Ignis wishes he could offer something to her. Something more than a brief hug, and more than money. Something warm like genuine comfort; For Luna, though, his heart will spare none. All he can do is hurriedly agree to see Noctis, and follow her as she leads him.

This wing of the hospital is quiet. The sterile smell is stronger, here, and the silence is more obvious. There are few shuffling back and forth through hallways, and only the occasional nurse, who passes them by without looking. They keep their eyes, their hands, and apparently their questions, to themselves.

Luna stops before one of the doors, and steps aside. She doesn’t look up, and Ignis thinks he may have heard her sniff. All he can offer her is a hand on her shoulder before he steps in, breath held in his throat, eyes not ready to fall on Noctis.

The door shuts behind him when he finally opens his eyes. His eyes first find the floor, tracing the lines of the tile, and then the wheels and sheets of his bed. The wiring that hangs is sickening, and Noctis is hooked up to every possible machine he could be and it makes Ignis _so violently ill_ he’s got to step just a touch closer to the trashcan. He covers his mouth, his eyes unable to leave Noctis’ sleeping form, and tries to find the breath that’s been beaten out of him.

He steps closer, click of his shoes echoing in the silent room beside beeping, compressing, hissing of machine. Ignis takes up a chair to pull it closer to Noct’s bedside, but he doesn’t yet take a seat, instead standing on locked knees to hover over his charge.

The charge he failed to protect.

Ignis’ eyes begin to burn again, and this is the heart he knew he could not spare. This is a special kind of grief, a special kind of pain, reserved for Noctis and Noctis alone. This grief, the burning of the throat and eyes and the tears that fall onto sickly white sheets below, this is _for_ Noctis. The softness of this, the emotion Ignis has let no other see before - no lover, no child, no employer - this is his gift. It’s all Ignis can offer him anymore.

Finally, he sits, taking one of Noct’s small wired hands into his own. He presses it to his forehead, his shoulders shaking and throat _impossibly_ sore from the effort of holding back noise, and runs his thumb over small knuckles.

“Please,” he whispers against pale digits, _so damn small_ in his own hands, “When you wake, Noctis, forgive me for my inaction. Forgive me for what I haven’t done, and forgive me for what I have,” Ignis finds it hard to speak through the feeling of his grief. “But, most importantly, you must forgive me for what I’m about to do to make this right.”

There’s something cold in Ignis’ core he hasn’t felt since he was a teenager. Something he hasn’t felt since his first bare-handed kill. It feels like ice, but burns hot as flame, and it tenses his shoulders and dries the tears running down his face. It eases the pain in his throat, or perhaps makes it bearable; It’s a deathly sort of cold, and a pleasant sort of calm.

What burns, freezes, but kills all the same is the want - the need - for revenge.

To see Ravus as he saw Noctis, hurting, and frightened. To see Ardyn as he saw Regis, bits of skull and brain matter splattered across his grandiose office windows with a message written, I WIN. It’s grotesque, it’s vicious and cold and would frighten Noctis without a doubt. But Ignis’ index finger is twitching. It’s twitching under Noct’s palm, and it doesn’t stop until he rests his own head against the bed’s edge.

The next thing he remembers is opening his eyes to a blurry, dark hospital room.

There’s a small hand in his hair, patting his head less than gently. Ignis yawns, his eyes falling shut again before his brain processes exactly what’s going on.

There’s a hand in his hair. He’s being pet.

There’s only one other person in the room.

Ignis sits up quickly, fumbling to straighten his glasses. “Noctis?” He asks, voice laced with exhaustion to the point where Ignis himself doesn’t recognize it. “Noctis, are you awake? How long have you been up? Are you alright, can I get you anything at all?”

Noctis slowly moves to rub at one of his eyes, and shakes his head. Ignis’ eyes catch Noct’s when the boy tilts his head slowly to look at him, and he tries his damndest to really, truly, smile for him. It isn’t returned, and Ignis doesn’t mind, nor did he expect it to be. Noctis’ attention seems to be gathering at the wiring coming into him, coming out of him, needles and fluids buried into his veins.

It’s at seeing this, that be begins to cry. Ignis watches as the pain and the fear hits him all at once, welling up in his eyes and spilling down pale cheeks.

Ignis’ heart shatters in his chest, and he moves to sit as close as he can to his charge, petting his cheeks to catch the tears. He tries his best to hush him, to wipe away tears with his thumbs, to offer words of comfort and love. Noctis doesn’t seem consoled, and Ignis can feel himself cracking with each and every tiny, strangled, pained sob the boy lets out.

“Noctis, _shhh, please,_ ” Ignis whispers with desperation, “Please, little one, you’ll aggravate your wounds and we don’t need this getting worse--”

“ _I_ _ggy_ ,” the boy wheezes, voice weak from disuse and pain, “It-- I’m scared--”

“I know, I know,” Ignis breathes, squeezing Noctis’ hand. “But you’re safe. You’re safe now, Noct, I’ve got you.”

Noctis doesn’t seem to be comforted much, but the more Ignis pets through thick black hair, the quieter he gets. He keeps his voice low and soothing, trying to offer smiles when he can. The boy is shuddering breaths and shaking shoulders, winces of pain accompanying each little movement. Eventually, his eyes close and he seems to try to will himself to relax, and Ignis couldn’t be more thankful. He whispers words of encouragement, praise for being so brave. It’s all he can offer.

It’s a lucky shot, but Lunafreya enters just moments later, looking even more exhausted than the last time Ignis had seen her. She rushes to Noct’s other side, gloved fingers gently prodding at different places in different pressures. Her brow is furrowed, and Ignis studies her expression for any hint of panic or fear - any hint at all for negative news.

“How are you feeling, Noctis?” She asks quietly, moving to take her stethoscope off from around her neck.

“Hurts.” Noct sniffles, and Ignis tries to give his hand a reassuring squeeze.

“Mmm, I can imagine so,” Luna hums softly, nodding slightly when all appears to be well. “I can give you something for that, soon.”

She moves to take her stethoscope back, and strip herself of latex gloves. Ignis keeps his eyes on Noctis until Luna’s gaze burns a near hole through him, and when he looks up, she carefully motions him out. Ignis doesn’t budge, waiting for her to speak - whatever needs to be said, needs to be said in front of Noctis. To let go of his hand would be to abandon him to a room too white, too lonely, and much too undersecured.

“Ignis,” Luna says, “I… Would prefer we do this outside.”

Ignis blinks once behind his glasses, and Noct’s expression falls.

“Wh-- You’re leaving?”

“...Noct,--”

“You can’t leave, you just got back!” His voice is broken, tired, and pained. “Iggy, what if they come back?”

“I’ll be right outside the door,” Ignis says, his attention zeroed in on the boy he’d _very much_ like to keep relaxed. “I’ll be right outside, you’ll be able to see me through the window. I promise you. I promise you, I will be right outside, and I’ll come back as soon as I’m able.”

Noctis grips Ignis’ hand as tight as he can apparently manage, and Ignis stands, keeping hold of it as he presses a kiss to the boy’s forehead. He’s careful not to jostle him too much as he lets go of his hand, and follows Lunafreya outside.

Door shut behind them, Luna turns to him. “His scans came back,” she says, and there’s a hint of a smile. “He’s fine. He’s very, very, very lucky. Nothing major was hit, but some muscle was torn up. He should be up and normal in a couple of weeks, with proper rest and diet.”

Ignis breathes an incredible sigh, rubbing his eyes under his glasses. Relief, warmth, floods through him like nothing he’s ever felt before and he can hardly breathe. There’s a smile that forms, and his eyes burn again even though he doesn’t think he’s ever been so happy before in all his years. He takes off his glasses, and feels Luna pull him into a hug.

“You’re a good man, Ignis, for protecting him,” she whispers against his shirt, and he pats her back softly. “Thank you.”

Ignis doesn’t respond, because there’s nothing he can do besides reject what she’s said to him. He knows he isn’t a good man, and the protection he’s offered has clearly been mediocre. Still, he thanks her, and fixes his glasses when Luna pulls back. “Oh,” she says, sudden remembrance across her visage, “The woman you came in with came calling a few hours ago. I told her you were busy.”

“A few--?” Ignis blinks rapidly, checking his watch. Which, naturally, now has a cracked face. Because of course it does. “How long was I asleep?”

Luna smiles widely. “You and Noctis have been sleeping for some twelve hours now. I thought it best to let you rest.”

Ignis, baffled by the revelation, heaves another sigh and nods. “...Right. Right, thank you. For everything, Luna.”

She offers another nod and asks him to call should they need anything, and Ignis peeks back into the window of Noct’s room. His eyes are closed, his shoulders relaxed, and he appears to be sleeping again. But just as he goes to take his seat beside him once more, his phone rings, and he knows immediately who’s come calling.

“H--”

 

“Yo, Scientia!” Aranea’s voice is loud, slightly jarring, and the sound of the wind can be heard in the background. “I got three bags of Carl’s Jr. with mine, yours, and Squirt’s name on it. Where are you?”

“I’m not feeding him th--” Ignis pinches the bridge of his nose, and wills himself into a state of relaxation and patience. “...What’s in it.”

“Yours is a cheeseburger, and I got your little gremlin two orders of those super bitchin’ chicken stars. I got you a Coke, too, but if you want the Sprite I got that’s fine too.”

Ignis mutters an ‘oh, bloody hell’ before giving the affirmative, and hanging up. Only then does he let himself into Noct’s room, taking his place beside him, and holding his hand once again. This is how the time passes, Ignis both dreading and cherishing every moment of the silence.

Which is, naturally, shattered when Aranea enters the room some half an hour later.

True to her word, she holds several bags of food in her arms, accompanied by two larger drinks. They’re both plopped down onto the bedside table unceremoniously, and Noct’s apparent bag is waved in front of his nose.

“Aranea!” Ignis hisses, “Leave him be, for Christ’s sake--”

His protests come a touch too late, it seems, and Noctis is roused by the promise of the greasy mess in the bottom of the paper bag. He blinks awake, looking up with a puzzled expression but keeping blue eyes glued to the bag nonetheless.

It’s when he looks up, that he seems to be jarred once again.

“You--” Noctis starts, clearly unsettled, “You were there when they-- Ignis don’t let her--!”

Ignis moves quickly, hushing and petting Noctis as he explains the help Aranea has been these past several hours. He explains that she’s good, just as good as he himself is, and that there’s no fear to be had when she’s around. Noctis still seems unsettled even after Aranea herself swears to do no harm, but the food offered is still taken.

There’s a few awkward moments of silence with Noctis eyeing Aranea like she’s going to kill them both at any moment, and it’s broken by an obnoxious dry sip of her drink. She clears her throat before asking, “So, uh. How’re you feeling, kid?”

Noctis frowns. “I got _shot_.”

Aranea nods slowly, as if to accept defeat on the friendship front. “Yeah, you sure did.”

Ignis finishes his food quickly, not quite bothering to taste it. It’s been too long since he’d had anything substantial, and only when he took the first bite of his burger did he really begin to feel it. The silence sets in again, only to be lifted by Aranea standing, gathering what little of her things she brought inside, and the trash from the meal. “I’m gonna get going,” she says, “Got some business to attend to. Just wanted to make sure the both of you were doing okay.”

Ignis nods, “Thank you. For the food, and dropping by.”

With a nod and a smile, she departs. And it’s soon after that Lunafreya comes back to administer pain medication, and do an overall check on Noctis. Ignis watches, sitting idle, until his phone vibrates from his back pocket.

**didnt wanna say it in front of the kid but im going to go looking for ravus. he owes me some answers.**

Ignis sighs through his nose.

**Take care. Let me know if you find anything.**

There’s another buzz immediately after the text is sent, giving the affirmative. He tips his head back to run a hand through his hair, pocketing his phone and keeping his eyes on Noctis, who’s giggling at something Luna must have said to him. Ignis has a sinking feeling in his stomach that this is going to be a very, very long recovery.

And it is.

Noctis getting better takes time. It’s a process that cannot be rushed, and Ignis is the first to respect that - but there are only so many motels he can stay in, in New York. He finds, however, that no one has coming looking for them. There are no oddities in housekeepers and staff, there are no strange late-night visits from the police. Nothing. Complete radio silence. It’s silence Ignis uses to sleep more regularly, despite the vivid dreams of Noct’s blood under his nails. It’s silence used to collect himself, and silence used to vent. Weeks tick by this way.

Soon enough, Noctis is released with a warning to take it easy. Luna fills painkiller medications for Noct, and they’re off and on the way to their next hotel home.

Noctis is sitting in the front seat, fox figurine firmly in his grasp with a bag of Swedish Fish in his lap. He seems occupied with them, while Ignis idly taps his index finger against the steering wheel. They’re stopped at a red light, making their way back out of Hell’s Kitchen, when Ignis’ phone buzzes from the center console.

It’s a text from an unknown number.

**I know something you don’t knooow~.**


	6. A Sinner's Inaction.

Two days since that ignored text. Two days since that ominous buzz, two days since the foreboding text plastered over a too-bright screen. Ignis and Noctis have since made their way to West Virginia, on the way to a Montana safehouse. The west coast is no longer an option, not with that being a now-known destination. Ignis knows it’s better to be safe, than most certainly sorry.

He’s been calling Aranea at every stop, on every long stretch of road. Her phone, every time, goes to voicemail, and it both worries and frustrates Ignis at the same time. Aranea is his only hope to keep tabs on Ravus and Ardyn, and without her, he’s got no hope of knowing where they are or what they’re up to.

Noctis seems to feel better with every passing moment, but he shuts himself off entirely. He’s closed off from everyone, no longer comfortable with buying his own snacks at the petrol station or holding even the lightest of conversation with anyone but Ignis. He keeps his fox figure closer than ever, the detailed object in one hand and Ignis’ own hand, oftentimes, in the other. It hurts him to see the boy shy away from everyone, including children his own age.

It’s late, tonight. Quiet, and the blinds of the Motel Six are drawn, and the television is playing softly in the background. Noctis sits cross-legged on one end of the bed with Ignis opposite him, piles of playing cards in the middle and in their hands. They’ve been playing Go Fish for at least an hour, now, and there’s no end in sight; It brings Noctis great amounts of satisfaction and joy, and Ignis isn’t bashful about spoiling him when it comes to these sorts of things.

“Uhhh,” Noctis hums, cheeks puffing out just barely. “Got any fours?”

“Cast a line, Noct.”

“What? No way! You’ve gotta be cheating this time, you haven’t had anything for the last five turns!”

Ignis chuckles, pushing up his glasses with the barest hint of a smile. “Perhaps you need to guess a bit better.”

“Lemme see your hand!”

“Now _t_ _hat_ is certainly cheating.”

“But--!” Noctis’ protests are cut off by the buzz of Ignis’ mobile on the bedside table, loud and shifting against the wood. Ignis sets his hand of cards face down, and picks up his cellphone to check the ID.

UNKNOWN.

Ignis stares at his screen, thumb hovering over the decline button.

“Iggy?” Noctis’ blurred and lost voice tries to reach him, to no avail. “Ignis, who is it?”

Ignis can’t help but stare for just a moment, debating. Answering could kill them both. Declining could kill Aranea, it could kill Ravus before Ignis got the chance to do it himself. It could be anything. Both options are lethal.

He makes his choice on the fourth ring.

“I’m going to step outside for just a moment, Noct.”

If Noctis protests, or tries to follow after him, it isn’t heard. It’s drowned out by the sound of his own footsteps, the shutting of a heavy door, and the racing of his heart.

Ignis slides the green button. “Hello?”

“It’s so very _obnoxiously rude_ to leave someone on ‘read’, you know.”

Ignis’ blood stops cold in his veins. The breath that he could see against the night air freezes in its place while the clouds stop in their tracks, and the stars beyond dull. The streetlights grey and dull, and the distant sound of cars passing by is slowly softened to a mute.

“You.”

“Me,” Comes the bored response, “Anyhoo, I’m glad you picked up. I thought it might be appropriate to have some direct words, now, considering everyone I send for you just drops off the face of the Earth.”

“What do you want from me.” Ignis’ voice is level, and dangerous.

“Want?” There’s a laugh from the other end of the line. “Don’t be silly, you already know what I want.”

“I’m hanging up.”

“Oh oh! Bad idea, dear boy, bad idea! Don’t you want to hear what else the charitable mister Izunia has to say?”

Ignis lowers his phone to take a deep breath, letting it out slowly. His patience is being worn more quickly than it ever has been, and Ardyn’s voice is making him want to drive Aranea’s butterfly knife into his own ears.

“Not particularly.”

“Well, you ought to listen, because it’s important stuff,” he says, and Ignis rolls his eyes. “You know that I want the bank codes, and I know that you’ve got them. This is all well and wonderful, been established, et cetera, et cetera. However, mister Scientia, your games have been starting to aggravate me.”

“I’m doing my job then. Are you just calling to threaten me?”

“ _Threaten you?_  Of course not. There’s no fun in threatening. No, I’m calling to give you a… Heads up. I’ve stopped sending men after you, you see - you really do have a gift, mister Scientia, a gift very few have. You’re merciless. In retrospect, I should have really seen this coming,” There’s a sigh from the other end of the line, dismissive. “You know what they say. If you want something done right, you’ve got to do it yourself.”

“You’re hunting us personally, then.”

“I was getting to that bit,” There’s a quiet scoff. “But, yes, to make a long story very short… I will find you.”

Ignis runs a hand over his mouth, seething soundlessly. His knuckles are white, his jaw is tense and tight, and he can’t see through the haze of red clouding his vision. His index finger twitches once, tapping against the back of his phone. “Catch us if you can.”

Ignis is the first to hang up. His hands, fingers, shoulders all shake with rage, and he rapidly pats at his pockets in search of his lighter, and his cigarettes. One is extracted from the pack and placed between his lips, which still shakes as much as the rest of him and--

“...Iggy, are you crying?”

Ignis freezes, snatching the cigarette out of his mouth to deftly put it back in the pack. He turns to see Noct in the threshold, door open and eyebrows upturned, clearly concerned. He has his fox figure in one hand and keeps the heavy door open with the other, just staring.

Ignis stares back. He isn’t sure what to say, and isn’t sure how his voice would sound should he decide to speak. Noctis, again, asks if he’s alright, and only then can he try to say something.

“No, little one,” It’s soft, and defeated. Tired and angry. Ignis leans down in the threshold to press a kiss to the boy’s forehead, lingering and worried. “No. No, I’m not crying.”

“Okay.”

“But I imagine I will be when you beat me _again_ in Go Fish.”

 

\--

 

They leave, in the morning.

Ignis doesn’t bother with staying for breakfast, or brewing coffee. When he wakes, he dresses and packs, and carries Noct’s sleeping form to the car, where he’s settled into the backseat and buckled in as well as he can be. There is no radio, and no sound save for that of the engine and asphalt beneath tires. The silence is just as frightening as it is comforting.

Every moment he’s able, Ignis is checking the rearview mirror. It feels like once every hour, but he knows he’s checking it twelve times in a minute. Any highway they travel on, he switches lanes constantly, keeping an eye for vehicles that seem too familiar. It borders paranoia, his thoroughness with the task, but he knows it’s better paranoid than… Seeing the alternative.

Noctis stirs, finally, around some nine in the morning.

It’s all flat country, here. Ignis watches fondly from the mirror as Noct rubs at his eyes, and yawns widely. He reaches for his fox figurine sitting in the center cupholder, sitting upright with a dull glance around, and Ignis feels himself smile.

“Good morning, Noct.”

There’s a passive grunt as Noct flops back down unceremoniously, pulling a blanket around himself tightly.

“...We left? Where are we?” He sounds tired, and it keeps Ignis’ smile steady. “‘M hungry.”

“We’re some hours outside of Sutton, nearing Spencer,” Ignis replies, adjusting his glasses. “Also known as, ‘the middle of bloody nowhere’,” Noctis laughs so quietly, and it makes Ignis warm. “We can stop, soon. Get something good for breakfast, hm?”

Only now does Ignis click on the radio, keeping it low. There isn’t much in terms of conversation, but he knows it’s just because Noctis’ brain is still working on booting up for the day. He keeps an eye out for rest stops and restaurants, even as the boy makes a very poor effort of tumbling into the front seat over the center console. He yawns again, and Ignis chuckles at the lazy look about him. “We need to get you properly dressed.”

Noctis grumbles a response, and Ignis makes a mental note to make sure he gets something full of protein.

 

\--

 

The days come and go, one after the other. Ignis doesn’t stop, not unless he has to - he keeps the pace he’d started out with in the beginning. Drive until it’s unsafe. Drive until the exhaustion of being behind the wheel begins to endanger Noctis. Only then will he give himself leave to sleep, and then it will be onward to Montana.

Onward to somewhere secluded and quiet, with plenty of places for Noctis to explore around. Plenty of places to form fond memories, plenty of places to sculpt a slightly more normal childhood. Ignis knows that the seclusion of this, the isolation, won’t be easy for either of them to handle. But it’s a small price to pay, to keep Noctis away from Ardyn and out of harm’s way.

It’s late, much too late to have Noct awake. A smaller town in Kentucky nearest the Missouri border provides wonderful respite - and coffee - and it’s where Noctis decides he’d like to stop for something to eat.

It’s silent, here, and Ignis can think as he dusts off cup after cup of coffee. He watches Noct look over the menu with something of a pout, and it makes him laugh against the porcelain of his mug.

“Not to your liking, little prince?”

Noctis makes a face at the nickname, and sighs. “I’m too old for you to keep calling me that,” he says, but nonetheless seems to agree. “Nothing sounds good.”

“Well, you can always share with me, if you’d like.” Ignis offers, and he’s not at all surprised when Noct shakes his head.

“You eat rabbit food, no way.”

Ignis actually laughs at this. “Rabbit food? It’s hardly rabbit food, Noct, those things are good for you. They help you grow, and give you strong bones,” He works to bite back his factual knowledge of various studies he knows he’s shoved down the boy’s throat all these ten years. “Unless, of course, you’d like to remain as short as you are.”

Noctis looks up, offended, and pouts once more. After sending that poor waitress away at least three times, he finally settles on something, and they order and continue to sit, savoring the peace.

Ignis glances out the wide window they’d been seated next to, and takes another sip of his coffee. The streetlights here are yellow, illuminating the few that walk along the sidewalks, past the diner and around corners. There are dark cars parked on the edges of the street, and the traffic lights up the road remain green.

He watches with rapt attention as one black car comes around the corner, slowly, and doesn’t speed up as it approaches the traffic light past the diner. The windows are tinted, allowing nothing to see through the glass, and Ignis adjusts his glasses.

His index finger twitches.

The waitress comes back with their food, and Noctis is quick to dive into it after shoving the vegetables onto Ignis’ own plate. He tears his attention away from the window, and back to his coffee.

“Hurry on with your food, Noct. We should get back on the road soon.”

Noctis doesn’t respond, apparently too into his food to give much attention to Ignis’ instruction. He doesn’t mind, knowing he’s probably long been hungry, but his own food is forgotten. It’s pushed to the back of his mind, and his eyes continue to patrol the street. There’s several more cars that pass, and Ignis nearly lowers his alarms when a similar vehicle rolls slowly around the corner.

Not similar, Ignis decides, the same.

It’s an Audi, the harder Ignis studies it, and a nice one at that. Dark, to blend in with the night, to hide identities. Ignis sets his coffee down, and looks to Noctis again. “Finish up, Noct.”

He gives the benefit of the doubt. Perhaps it’s a lost civilian in the wrong part of town. He doesn’t want to hold the waitress and the cook in the back at gunpoint and tell them to _run_ if he doesn’t absolutely have to. So he waits, and he waits.

The Audi rolls around again, and it’s time to go.

Ignis doesn’t stand, but he does lean in close to Noct.

“Listen to what I’m about to tell you closely. Do not stray from what I tell you to do.”

Noctis pauses, looking at Ignis with a fear. He knows what’s going on, or he’s at least very close to figuring it out. “Go behind the counter and into the back. Hide behind the thickest piece of steel you can find, and don’t come out until I come to get you. Yes?”

“Iggy, I don’t want to be by myself--”

“I know. I know, but this is very, very important. I wouldn’t ask you to do this if it wasn’t absolutely necessary.”

Ignis watches as the car passes the diner, and only then does he stand.

The .9mm pistol holstered in his blazer is removed as Noctis runs to do as he’s told, and the barrel of the gun is held to the waitress at the counter.

“I’m not going to kill you. But if you don’t leave right now, someone else will. Take everyone in the back, and run.”

It takes a bark of ‘Go!’ to get her moving, but she does, and Ignis is thankful for that. He takes his seat once again, and when the Audi rolls around this time, it parks curbside.

Ignis keeps his pistol atop the table, removes his glasses to clean them, and places them back on the bridge of his nose.

Two men enter through the front door. Ignis sips at cold coffee, one hand gripping his pistol now beneath the table, watching as they seem to look him over. They’ve got their hands in their pockets, and Ignis makes goddamn sure he fires the first shot.

He does.

His index finger doesn’t twitch, but _squeezes_ pleasantly with perfect pressure, in turn lodging a hollow point bullet into the nearest man’s knee. Only then does he stand, quickly moving to finish him off with four shots to the stomach.

Five rounds remain in the clip. One in the chamber.

Ignis narrowly manages to dodge a swipe from the second man’s .50 caliber, thanking each and every god he can think of in the process. He’s fast, moving to grab the outstretched arm to bend it upwards with the help of his own elbow.

_Crack._

Ignis feels the bone snap with a sick pop, and taking the .50 caliber pistol from him is an easy task. But there’s a foot lodged against his stomach and it sends him sprawling, and he doesn’t manage to lodge a bullet into him before the man’s vaulted over the counter.

Noctis.

Ignis is fast to follow, and this time, he does manage to land a bullet. It hits home in the man’s hip, bringing his attention back. The lasting struggle, however, is brief, because in the kitchen doorway stands another man.

He’s got a gun to the back of Noct’s head, and Ignis freezes in his tracks.

This, of course, affords his current adversary a chance to hit him once in the stomach, sending him to the floor and disarming him to turn the tide of the fight.

“We have orders,” the man behind Noctis says, “He wants you both alive.”

Noctis is sobbing, shaking on weak knees, and Ignis tries hard to hush him from his kneeling position on the floor. Ignis holds a stare, mouthing ‘you’re alright’ and ‘I’ve got it’. Still, he has questions - Ardyn said he’d do this himself, so why again have his goons come to--?

“Now now, let’s not make this diner any bloodier than it must be.”

_Oh._

Ardyn comes strolling around the counter, grimacing at the scene. Broken plates, spills of various liquids on the floor remain, and Ignis watches as he seems to tip-toe around the mess. Brown, nearly _yellow_ eyes meet with his own, and Ignis scowls.

“Oh, God. You look like absolute hell, Ignis,” Ardyn says, more disgusted than anything else. His attention turns towards a very distressed Noctis, and he reaches into his own coat to pull out a handkerchief. “And you, dear one, dry those tears. You’ve many more after this to shed.”

“Don’t you _fucking dare talk to h--_ ”

“What’re you going to do, Ignis,” Ardyn says, turning with a bored expression. “Stab me in the shin?”

Ignis nearly growls, but stays quiet when the cold barrel of a gun presses to his temple. He feels himself get lifted from under the arm, but he shakes it off with a mumble of, ‘I know how to walk, thanks very much’. The guns remained aimed at both himself and Noctis, and they’re led out the back exit, where the same Audi and yet another are parked and running.

Ignis hears Noctis cry out and fall, and not a millisecond after, his own vision goes black.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is the second to last chapter, i think, so get ready yall


	7. A Torturer's Peace.

When Ignis wakes, it isn’t really waking.

It’s more like a system reboot after a crash, gears beginning to grind to a steady start, vision mending itself back together to create a solid picture. He blinks slowly, taking pauses to squeeze his eyes shut and try to rid himself of the ringing in his ears. There’s concrete below his shoes, and he can feel the bite of an industrial ziptie on his wrists and ankles, unforgiving. When he tries to move at all, he finds himself mostly stuck to place, bound by… A chair. Of course.

His first thought, however, is of Noctis.

Noctis sits restrained just the same as he is, ziptied and propped against the aluminum wall. He’s unconscious, and there are bruises blooming about his eyes and his lip like dead flowers in a snowstorm. Ignis squints, trying to make out the fine details of Noct’s face when he’s suddenly hyper-aware of the weight _not_ on his nose. His glasses must have come off about the commotion of being bloody _kidnapped_. Shaking his head, he works to think on the next most important thing.

Location.

Where the hell _are_ they? Ignis laughs softly, bitterly, when he realizes that it doesn’t matter. Wherever they are is probably so far removed from everything, not even the loudest scream he could conjure would summon any help. There’s nothing he can do but think, look around, and wait.

Looking around doesn’t do him much good, either. The only thing he’s able to make out is that they’re in someone’s warehouse-like shed, one smelling of dust and decade-old oxidized metal. There’s some kind of table some distance to the right of him, but it’s entirely too far out of reach to even think of trying to get to it.

“Ah! And like the good Lord above, he rises.”

Ardyn’s voice is nails on a chalkboard to Ignis, and he grits his teeth as he looks toward the sound. He must have been watching from a distance, because his form only becomes truly distinguishable the closer he gets and that smirk becomes disgustingly clear. “You were really out, goodness gracious. The sun’s due to rise in a few hours.”

Ignis doesn’t dignify his words with a response, instead choosing to keep unflinching eye contact. He keeps a watch on Ardyn as he moves to the table some distance from him, and retrieves something small and vaguely outlined. Only when they’re put on his face does and his vision sharpens does he realize that they are, in fact, his glasses.

“I wanted to show you something,” Ardyn begins, “Something I want you to see in perfect clarity before we really get into the thick of it. Do you recall the text I sent you some time ago that said ‘I know something you don’t knoooow’ with a little tilde at the end?”

Ignis watches him retrieve his mobile from his pocket, malicious smile still plastered over his face like it’s stuck there. He’s scrolling through something as he speaks, eyes narrowing as if having trouble seeing the screen. “I finally get to show you what I know! Oh, this is exciting, it really is. This buildup here is always my favorite part.”

Ignis watches Ardyn’s index finger tap the screen once, twice, and then as he turns the screen towards him. Ignis’ eyes narrow, trying to focus on the sudden brightness, and then…

Oh, God.

Gore has never much bothered Ignis. He’s seen enough of it, made enough of it, that the sight and smell of gore near comforts him at this point. This, though, this is different - seared into the touchscreen phone’s face is a picture of Aranea, the back of her skull shot out behind her and laying in a splattered pool of her own blood. She’s bloody on every inch, her hair glued to her face by it all. Her mouth hangs open just barely, and Ignis knows that this was taken not a moment after she stopped breathing.

This nearly makes him ill. Not the gore, but the person. The woman that helped him help Noctis. The woman who killed for Noctis and asked nothing in return. Ignis inhales and looks down at his feet, his nails digging into his palms. He’s not sure how he feels, not sure exactly if he should be angry or sad, if not both at the same time. He can only take in steady, rhythmic breaths, and try not to let Ardyn in; Try not to let him know what’s going on in his head.

“She came in like she was going to kill Ravus and I,” Ardyn fucking _chuckles,_ “Didn’t get terribly far. She always was a bit brash.”

“How did you find us,” Ignis finally manages, his voice thick. He looks up again, shifting to lean against the back of the chair. “How did you… Know where we were? I covered our tracks.”

Ardyn nearly grins with childlike excitement at the question, pocketing his mobile and clapping both hands together. “I’m _so_ elated that you asked! This was one of my more brilliant ideas, I think, I _really_ do.”

Ignis watches as Ardyn strolls over to Noctis, and his gut tightens with his throat. He strains against the ties, but nothing comes except harsh reminders of just how tight they are. Ardyn reaches into one of the pockets on Noct’s shorts, and pulls out…

A quarter?

“See, here was my line of thought,” he says as he walks slowly back over to Ignis, flipping the coin up into the air with a thumb, “I thought to myself, ‘you know, he’s going to come for the boy if you take him’. So then I thought, ‘well, I’ll just have him killed’, but the problem lies within that you’re something of a slippery bastard that just won’t die no matter how many bullets I put into you, so it wouldn’t be that easy. But I definitely wanted you dead, so _then_ I thought ‘well alright, I’ll just bug the boy to make trailing them easier! Right under his nose’. Truthfully, I didn’t expect it to work as well as it did, I thought it would have fallen out or been thrown into a fountain…”

The rest of Ardyn’s ramblings fall on deaf ears, because Ignis realizes that it’s _his fault._

After such brave talk, _catch us if you can_ , Ardyn really has caught them and it’s because Ignis got careless at the most important time. He got careless, forgetting that Ardyn is just as clever as he - just as cunning, just as creative. Creative enough to put a tracking device _on Noctis_ , knowing that it’s so in plain sight it would just slip right under his radar.

It’s a sharp, drawn out whistle that knocks him out of the realization.

“Hellooo? Are you listening to me?”

“Not particularly.”

“So rude!” Ardyn hisses, mock-offended. “Well, now that we’re behind schedule due to your sleeping in, I have to rush things,” It’s then that he pulls over the table, the legs of it screeching as it comes across the floor. “So I’ll have to cut to the chase now. The bank codes.”

Ignis doesn’t smile with his lips, nor with his face at all, but rather with his eyes. Looking over the rim of his glasses, he says with a disinterested voice, “I’ve not the faintest what you’re on about.”

Ignis knows he’s been hit when his skull nearly vibrates, and his glasses go skittering across the concrete audibly. His jaw ignites, burning and throbbing, and he inhales sharply as he tries to reset it. “Mister Scientia,” Ardyn says, “I have an eleven o’clock meeting in the morning with a very important partner that I would very much like to be on time to. Can’t we skip the brave guardian act?”

“I’d hate to make you late.”

“I’d hate to _be_ late.”

“That said, that doesn’t mean I know or would tell you Regis’ bank codes.”

Another punch, this time to the opposite side. It hurts just as bad as the first strike, and Ignis can feel the tang of copper flood his mouth. He catches his breath, inhaling and welling up a mouthful of blood and saliva to spit off to the side. “Noctis punches harder than you do.”

He imagines the punch following is well deserved, and another attempt to disorient him enough into saying something he shouldn’t. While his vision does double for just a moment, with a light shake of the head and a clearing of the throat, he can look up again. The moment he does, there’s a hand holding his jaw steady and open, and another hand working its way into his mouth with a piece of cold metal.

Ah, fuck.

Ignis shuts his eyes, remembering the pain of Noct stitching up a bullet wound as a back tooth is _ripped_ from his jaw - or, nearly ripped. It takes two hard yanks before Ignis can hear the pop of disconnect, can feel the bone loosen and drag strings of flesh with the roots of one firmly-placed molar. Blood fills his mouth quickly, forcing him to swallow it with a grimace and a long, shaky exhale, fingers trembling behind his back and body tense. He doesn’t cry out, determined not to give Ardyn the satisfaction, and takes in harsh and heavy breaths to collect himself.

Ardyn frowns at the lack of response. “Oh, you’ll be a tough nut to crack, I can already tell,” he paps Ignis’ cheek lightly a few times, before humming in thought. Suddenly, it seems as though someone’s turned the lights on in his brain, and he snaps his fingers. “I’ve just the thing! I know what’ll get you talking.”

Ignis swallows hard as he watches Ardyn pull a switchblade - _his switchblade,_ he realizes as he studies its blurry form, he’d know the colors anywhere - from his inside breast pocket. He steps over in quick strides to where Noctis sits on the floor, and takes the boy’s chin between a thumb and forefinger. Ignis feels his stomach clench, and he struggles against his binds.

“Don’t-- Don’t, just--”

“Oh, relax,” Ardyn scoffs, apparently trying to wake Noctis with light shaking and papping. “I’m just waking him up. Don’t you want to talk to him?”

Ignis bites down on his lower lip, feeling his teeth scrape painfully across it as he works to keep himself silent. Unbreakable. Were it just him in this room, he could do this for days, for _weeks_ , take the pain as easily as it could stand to be dished out. But to see Ardyn lay even the lightest hand on Noctis is…

Ignis inhales sharply when he hears a weak whine come from Noct, who stirs just barely before pausing. His expression twists into pure fear as he looks about near frantically, and Ignis goes to open his mouth to offer some words of comfort just as Ardyn beats him to the punch.

“There you are! Look alive, dear boy, we’ve much to discuss.”

Ignis watches Noct curl in on himself, the way he does when he’s lost in a nightmare Ignis can’t wake him from. His heart wrenches, and he knows Noct must be near tears or already crying, and he pulls against his ties. “He doesn’t _know,_ Ardyn!”

“We’ll see,” he says dismissively, and Ignis gasps loudly as he watches Ardyn send his foot into Noctis’ stomach so hard the poor child yelps, gagging audibly. “We’ve had this talk before, haven’t we, Noct? Where did Daddy keep his money?”

Noctis begins to choke on his tears, coughing and sniffling and stuttering out incoherent words. He’s shaking his head, and Ignis is so livid he can hardly _breathe_ properly, and it’s all he can manage to speak again. “He doesn’t _know!_ He’s just a boy, he doesn’t--”

Ardyn shushes him curtly, and Ignis only does as he’s told to be sure he doesn’t endanger Noctis any more than he already has. Ignis hears the mechanical click of his switchblade opening up, and his heart stops entirely. The blade inches near Noct’s eyes as Ardyn kneels down, and Ignis speaks before he dares to think.

“ _Bloody hell, take mine!”_ he yells, loud as he can, “Take mine, take mine! Don’t touch him, _please, he doesn’t know!_ ”

Ardyn stops in his tracks, and Ignis remains where he’s seated, shaking. Praying. Praying for Ardyn not to make him watch as he mutilates Noctis, praying not to have to watch the death of such a wonderful, beautiful little thing. The room is a deadly kind of quiet, the only sound being Noct’s crying, and then the sound of Ardyn coming to his feet.

“That’s actually brilliant,” he says, “You can’t kill what you can’t see, can you, mister Scientia?”

“No,” Ignis admits softly, “I can’t.”

Ignis hasn’t felt true fear in a very, very long time.

This is new. The tightness in his throat as Ardyn holds his jaw firm, the sickening feeling in his stomach and the pressure on his chest. His hands tremble violently, just as violently as the rest of him and even the deepest breaths don’t help. They’re not going to prepare him for this. _Still_ , Ignis thinks as Ardyn wipes down the blade, _I would do this a thousand times before I made Noctis undergo a second of it._

That holds true even when steel bites into his temple. He can feel the skin open, can feel the blood run down his cheekbones and drip along the line of his jaw, seeping between his skin and Ardyn’s fingers. The blade inches ever closer to the corner of his eye, and he directs his eyes to the last thing he wants to see.

Noctis.

Noctis, who sits sobbing and near screaming his name, who seems to be squirming an impossible amount. Noctis, who’s apparently managed to get up under the binds on his wrists. _Noctis,_ who Ignis can tell is planning some kind of daring escape with techniques taught to him in days past. Noctis, Noctis, Noctis, who is as clever and brave as he is kind, and soft. Noctis, who will survive this, even if Ignis himself does not.

The blade reaches his left eye, first.

It’s fire. The moment steel bites into the soft flesh of his eye, there’s no hope of holding back his voice. The scream that sounds is likely deafening, but this is a pain unlike any other. It somehow worsens as it drags closer to the center of his eye, and he can hear the blade scraping against the workings of lenses and nerve-endings. Warmth and pain cover a half of his face, the blood and something thicker running down his cheek. The pain shocks clear down his neck, to the other side of his face, down to his damned knees. And when one eye is finished, it’s onto the next.

The blade grinds across his nose just as deep, and his right eye is mutilated first at the cornea. The pain, just like the first half, is so incredible that Ignis can do nothing but scream, nothing but curse and struggle and pray for the end. He’s bleeding from everywhere; His palms where his nails are driven into his skin, the edges of the zipties where plastic nearly meets bone, and from his face, where a knife works to split it open horizontally.

He’s dizzy, throat raw and mouth dry, and he can’t tell when Ardyn’s finished. He’s stuck screaming, stuck voicing a pain so brutal he nearly begins to beg for his end. Nothing consoles him no matter how desperately he searches, nothing eases the pain, his eyes are on _fire_ and that’s all he can focus on.

Ignis can’t hear the distant _snap_ of plastic over his own breathing, over the blood pounding in his ears and the taunting nature of Ardyn’s voice. He can’t hear the soft footsteps inching nearer - in fact, the only thing he hears is another scream just in front of him, a curse and several grotesque crunches, and then silence.

Complete, and total silence.

“Iggy?” Comes a little voice, “Iggy, are… You there?”

Noctis?

Ignis can’t speak just yet, finding it impossible to catch his breath. Whines and whimpers escape without care, and all he can do is nod.

He can hear Noctis sobbing still, and he can feel his arms drop and feet spread as the plastic binds seem to be removed. “Y-You taught me to get outta zipties when I-I was nine, remember? The shoelace trick, and-- Um, it’s ok-okay, I think I-- I think I killed Ardyn, I stabbed him with a-- I don’t know, it’s long and pointed and it was on the table-- I stabbed him a few times, I don’t-- Iggy what do I do, you’re hurt so bad--”

Ignis can’t stand. He can’t move, he can barely breathe, and he knows he may well be bleeding out rapidly. All he can do is open his arms, and wheeze out a, “Sit with me, little one. Jus’… Sit with me.”

Ignis feels pressure on his thighs, and then against his chest, and he knows Noctis has curled up there. His arms wrap loosely around him, and he tilts his head back, hearing the blood drip steady onto the concrete below. “Noct?”

“W-What?”

“What’s the… Closest star to th’ Earth?”

“...The sun.”

“‘Nd then?”

“...A-Alpha Centauri A and B,” his voice is shaking so hard it’s nearly difficult to understand him. Still, Ignis smiles weakly at such brilliant answers, at such a bright young boy, and coughs. “‘N then it’s--”

“Proxima Centauri.” It’s said in unison, softly, gently. A trembling hand reaches up to feel for Noct’s hair, undoubtedly streaking blood across his forehead in the process. He pets slowly, carefully, savoring the feeling of his charge’s hair between his fingers for the very last time.

“When you,” Ignis begins, coughing again, “When you leave… Take my knife. Stand on the side of the road, and… Flag down a car. Call the police.”

“Iggy,” Noctis sobs, “You-- You _promised me_ th-that you weren’t gonna--”

“I’m so sorry, Noct,” Ignis’ voice trembles, and he knows that if he could produce any tears, he’d be crying just as hard. “...Know that I watch over you always.”

Noctis sobs louder, and he says nothing more. There are arms looped around his neck, squeezing tightly, and Ignis cherishes the feeling. He cherishes Noct’s smell, of oranges and cheap detergent - distantly, it reminds him of laundromats buried in downtown areas, where he and Noctis would rest at midnight to play checkers, and get cleaned up. He remembers the way they would watch cars out on the main road, and listen to distant sirens and gunshots.

Gunshots?

Ignis’ senses are stirred, and what was once acceptance of death becomes denial. He lifts his head as best he can, arms tightening around Noctis, who soon bolts from his lap. He can hear the scrape of his blade coming off of the ground, and he can tell that Noct must have retrieved it and likely has it in hand - the shots must have sounded in this lifetime.

There’s a creak, the sound of a door opening and Ignis can hear Noctis _gasp_. It doesn’t seem to bode well, and Ignis fights to keep conscious.

“Jesus, Mary and Joseph.”

The voice is deep. Familiar. Ignis about fucking laughs aloud, pain be damned.

“ _You!_ ” Noct yelps, voice clearly laced with fear. “Leave us alone! Leave Ignis alone, or I-- I’ll-- I’ll kill you, I swear I’ll kill you!”

“I’m not here to hurt you.”

 _“You beat me up!_ ” Noct sounds increasingly less frightened and increasingly more angry; He sounds… Deadly. Like he means his threats. “You _shot me!_ ”

“But you didn’t die. Now, move, if you want your guardian to live.”

“Don’t touch him! Don’t come near me, I’ll kill you like I killed him!”

“Fine. Let him die, then.”

Ignis, this time, does laugh.

There’s a grim silence that falls over the room. Ignis sits, laughing to himself, unbound but stuck to a chair by circumstance. It’s a soft kind of laughter, a free kind, one that knows no pain and one that knows no suffering. He laughs for some time, and when he stops, he can only sigh.

“You’re absolutely vile, Ravus.”

“Call me what you like. I’m here to help you.”

Noctis must have stepped down, because Ignis can feel himself being hauled out of the chair and nearly carried. Two sets of footsteps find his ears, and he zeroes in on the softer set, knowing that Noctis is just behind him. He can hear a car door open, can feel leather slide against his skin and suddenly the indent of someone small beside him, and he doesn’t move.

“Why.” Ignis asks, gripping Noct’s hand when it apparently finds its way to his own.

“Kill a confidant, shame on me,” Ravus mutters, “Threaten my sister, shame on you.”

“So you rescued us for nothing more than petty revenge?”

“If that’s what you care to believe. Know that you’re going to a hospital I have contacts at, and when you’re stitched and cleared for travel, I’m taking you to…?” Ravus pauses, as if expecting the sentence to be finished.

“Montana,” Ignis mutters, and now his consciousness is _really_ fading, “Montana.”

“I’m taking you to Montana.”

Where the grass is green, and Noctis will have a big yard to run around in. Where he can attend a normal school for normal children, and make friends his age. He can do what it is that regular children do - attend sleepovers, parties, and sit with a big group of friends at lunch. Noctis won’t have to stop in a gas station or restaurant for every meal - Ignis will be able to prepare him one, he’ll work to figure out how. He’ll be able to run for pleasure, and not for safety. He’ll be happy. It’s the thought of Noct’s happiness that allows Ignis to relax enough to fade into unconsciousness.

\--

Ignis didn’t expect to wake up.

He certainly didn’t expect to wake up to the sound of Lunafreya’s voice, nor the sound of cartoons in the background. He didn’t expect to wake to the smell of greasy fast food, nor did he even expect to wake up in a proper bed.

“ _Lunie look!_ ”

Noct’s voice is clear and obvious, and suddenly there’s a large shuffle and someone must be beside him - their breathing pattern can be heard, and suddenly there are hands on his face that make him start.

“Rest, Ignis, it’s only me,” Luna’s voice is soft, and he can feel her poking and prodding at various places on his person. “How are you feeling?”

Ignis’ mouth is bone dry, but that’s quickly remedied when Luna warns of a ‘plastic straw, an inch in front of you if you’d like water’. He doesn’t answer her question, only because there’s genuinely no word in the English language to describe precisely what’s going on in his mind.

“How are you…?”

“How am I here?” Luna asks for him, “Ravus called and told me what had happened, and flew me out to assist. I came as quickly as I could manage. But it was not I that saved you single-handedly.”

Ignis manages, with the few working parts of his brain, to piece together that she must have been the one to keep him from dying in the backseat of Ravus’ car. She must have been the one to do the major work, and for that, Ignis cannot thank her enough. She’s likely the sole reason he can still feel his eyes in his skull, despite that they… Realistically, may never… Be used again.

“Ignis…” Comes a tiny voice from his other side, and Ignis holds a hand out for Noctis to take. “Are you okay?”

“Mmmhm,” Ignis hums, nodding ever slightly. “Thanks to… You.”

Ignis wants to say more. He wants to thank Noctis, wants to commend him for being so incredibly brave, and wants to thank him for quite literally saving his life. He wants to thank him, praise him, for doing so wonderfully and being so patient. None of that, though, comes out. All he manages, and even this is with a struggle, is lifting his hand. Noctis leans into it, soft hair coming into contact with his fingertips, and Ignis can feel his body release tension.

“Noctis, dear,” Luna says softly, “Can you wait outside for me? I have to talk about something with Ignis.”

Ignis can hear light protesting, but there’s not much of a fight before there are footsteps, and a heavy door opening and closing. He moves to sit up, but the blood rushing to his head gives him cause to hiss in pain, and obeying Luna when she quickly warns against the action.

“Ignis,” She begins, and something in her voice sounds sad. “...Surely you understand the implications of such extensive injury to your eyes.”

“Full aware,” Ignis says, steely, “I don’t imagine my sight will return to me.”

“...It isn’t likely.”

Ignis sighs through his nose, fingers gripping at the bedsheets. His eyes burn, and he can feel a headache coming on but it’s worth it, it’s a small sacrifice, a small sacrifice, _minute_ if it means Noctis isn’t in his place.

“Please don’t beat around the bush, Luna.”

A soft inhale, and a very brief pause. “You’re blind, Ignis. Your sight isn’t going to return to you, not with how deep the gash runs. The most I can do is prescribe pain medication and offer physical therapy to help you.”

Ignis knows he cannot accept her offer. He knows that as soon as he’s able to stand, he needs to leave. He needs to get Noctis to Montana, needs to get him somewhere fresh, safe, and get him started in next year’s school term. He’s got to leave this behind, and now. So when he speaks, he tells Luna as such.

“Yes to the first offer, and no to the second. Now, tell me… What’s the soonest I can be released?”

\--

The weeks that pass are spent trying to adjust.

The cane Ignis receives from Ravus and Luna feels smooth under ungloved hands. Firm, cold against his fingertips, with pleasant carvings detailing the places of possible collapsibility. The leather strap at the very top serves well for something to idly fidget with when he finds he can’t do much moving or tapping. Seeing with it isn’t yet second nature, nor is it anywhere close to comfortable, but it’ll do until he and Noctis have a more permanent place of residency. It’s not long before bandages over his eyes are traded for dark glasses, something to keep at least remotely the same. A weight on the bridge of his nose.

Noctis is an incredible help. Ignis doesn’t tell Noctis the truth of his injuries, because he knows he wouldn’t be able to bear the sound of his voice asking if that makes him sad. Despite this, Noctis never once hesitates at taking his hand, describing an area, or reading a menu. No longer does Ignis find comfort in silence; He finds that now, the sight of Noctis is not enough to put him at ease. Now, it’s the soft snoring and sleep-speak of a child that brings him peace, the sound of cartoons playing in the background. The sound of soft giggling. It’s the sound of consecutive small footfalls and fidget noises that put him the most at ease.

Ravus drives them to Montana as soon as they’re able to leave.

It is, of course, a long trip. A long drive made with Ignis’ car, which he’s determined to keep and give to Noct when the time comes. It’s all made quietly, almost with an air of professionalism. Ravus drives, and Ignis sits in the back with Noctis, quietly chatting and amusing themselves with idle games and banter.

A lovely place in Montana is bought, and paid for by Ravus. It’s small, but large enough to satisfy, and Noctis describes the kitchen in such wonderful detail. The floors are smooth, the carpets are soft, and Noctis is satisfied.

It’s after the living arrangements are made and both himself and Noct are settled that Ignis shows the extent of his mercy.

It’s late. Ravus is waiting on a cab for the airport, and they both stand in the night air on the front porch. There are no words exchanged, because there is nothing to say. The only appropriate, satisfactory end Ignis can think of is hearing the sound of Ravus dropping dead where he stands. These acts, the house and the furnishings, this was not kindness. This was Lunafreya’s convincing and a poor attempt at absolution.

So, naturally, a warning must be given. “Ravus,” Ignis calls when he moves to head to his newly-arrived cab, “Make no mistake, you and I are not friends. If I find you here, anywhere in this state, I will make sure you die. Eyesight or no.”

There is no response for a solid minute, and Ignis thinks Ravus may have walked away. He turns to head back inside, when someone’s throat clears.

“I expect nothing less.”

Ignis pauses in his motion, but picks it back up a moment later. He doesn’t wish Ravus a nice night. He doesn’t wish him a safe trip back. He sends no well wishes for Luna. The only thing on his mind is getting as far away from Ravus Nox Fleuret as possible. When the sound of the cab drives off, Ignis feels a kind of peace he hasn’t ever felt before.

Safety.

\--

The air is cool, and the breeze is soft through Ignis’ hair.

He stands, cane in both hands at rest in front of him. A soft smile plays on his lips that he cannot hold back as the sound of a school bell rings, signaling the end of the day. There’s a flood of sound, doors opening and hinges squeaking, children laughing and conversations coming from every which way. Ignis can hear the decompressing of bus wheels behind him, and can feel the sun on the side of his face.

He keeps a special ear out for Noctis, who’s just being released from his first day of seventh grade.

Laughter and excitement buzz through the air, travelling through Ignis’ veins and relaying the feeling. Hands twist just barely around the handle of his cane, nervous, but nonetheless elated.

“Bye! See you tomorrow!”

Ignis perks at the voice he knows is Noct’s. His smile widens, the gears turning as he imagines who his charge must have befriended. He can hear the footsteps getting closer, and the feeling of tight arms around his waist put him at ease.

“Hello, Noct,” Ignis hums, patting the top of his head softly. “How was your day? Make any friends?”

Noctis lets him go, and Ignis turns to walk the pair of them down the sidewalk. “Kind of,” he says, “Someone named Prompto helped me with my math. He’s cool.”

Ignis continues to ask after Noct’s day, but his mind is elsewhere. His mind is in the tip of his cane, directing the both of them back home. His mind is in the breeze that continues to blow off and on pleasantly, and his mind is in the rustling sound of leaves and the sound of Noctis’ voice. It isn’t focused on their next move, their next destination. It hasn’t been in a very long time.

Ignis’ trigger finger hasn’t itched in two years.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks for all the support and love i got on this fic. i cant tell you how much it means to me, and i can't believe so many people liked my silly little au. i really appreciate everyone who left comments, and i love everyone who left a kudo. thank you so much for continuing to support me, it really meant a lot, especially with this work that wasn't ship based. thank you, thank you, thank you all.


	8. An Arsonist's End.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so i got a few requests for a bad end for this au, so i went with it. it's exactly what it says on the tin. it's the //bad end// dudes

Ardyn frowns at the lack of response. “Oh, you’ll be a tough nut to crack, I can already tell,” he paps Ignis’ cheek lightly a few times, before humming in thought. Suddenly, it seems as though someone’s turned the lights on in his brain, and he snaps his fingers. “I’ve just the thing! I know what’ll get you talking.” 

Ignis swallows hard as he watches Ardyn pull a switchblade -  _ his switchblade,  _ he realizes as he studies its blurry form, he’d know the colors anywhere - from his inside breast pocket. He steps over in quick strides to where Noctis sits on the floor, and takes the boy’s chin between a thumb and forefinger. Ignis feels his stomach clench, and he struggles against his binds.

“Don’t-- Don’t, just--”

“Oh, relax,” Ardyn scoffs, apparently trying to wake Noctis with light shaking and papping. “I’m just waking him up. Don’t you want to talk to him?” 

Ignis bites down on his lower lip, feeling his teeth scrape painfully across it as he works to keep himself silent. Unbreakable. Were it just him in this room, he could do this for days, for  _ weeks _ , take the pain as easily as it could stand to be dished out. But to see Ardyn lay even the lightest hand on Noctis is…

Ignis inhales sharply when he hears a weak whine come from Noct, who stirs just barely before pausing. His expression twists into pure fear as he looks about near frantically, and Ignis goes to open his mouth to offer some words of comfort just as Ardyn beats him to the punch.

“There you are! Look alive, dear boy, we’ve much to discuss.”

Ignis watches Noct curl in on himself, the way he does when he’s lost in a nightmare Ignis can’t wake him from. His heart wrenches, and he knows Noct must be near tears or already crying, and he pulls against his ties. “He doesn’t  _ know,  _ Ardyn!”

“We’ll see,” he says dismissively, and Ignis gasps loudly as he watches Ardyn send his foot into Noctis’ stomach so hard the poor child yelps, gagging audibly. “We’ve had this talk before, haven’t we, Noct? Where did Daddy keep his money?”

Noctis begins to choke on his tears, coughing and sniffling and stuttering out incoherent words. He’s shaking his head, and Ignis is so livid he can hardly  _ breathe  _ properly, and it’s all he can manage to speak again. “He doesn’t  _ know! _ He’s just a boy, he doesn’t--”

Ardyn shushes him curtly, and Ignis can hear the sound of his teeth clicking together as he shuts himself up. There’s a sigh from the other man as he stands, looking over Noctis as if debating his next move. Ignis is silent, the only sound being the harsh breathing he’s struggling to maintain, and he tries to offer Noctis whatever comforting looks he can muster. 

“You really don’t know, do you,” Ardyn says, sounding thoroughly disappointed. He heaves a dramatic sigh, making a soft  _ tsk  _ noise, and cards a hand through his hair. “Then I suppose there’s really no point in keeping you around, is there?” 

Ignis can hear his blood pounding in his ears. Things move in slow as Ardyn reaches into his coat, pulls out something silver and black, and pulls the hammer back.

Ignis opens his mouth to scream, and it’s drowned in a ringing shot and a second scream. Ignis is nearly ill on the spot, watching as Noctis struggles for breath, crying and gasping - no doubt Ardyn punctured a lung, no doubt  _ his little one  _ is in amounts of pain Ignis never wanted him to feel ever again. He watches, unable to act as Noctis screams something unholy, something so pained. His breaths are wet when he inhales, and it’s a sound Ignis is all too familiar with. The sound of a death rattle.

_ “Noctis!”  _ He doesn’t recognize his own voice when he screams. It’s guttural, primal and laced with fear, and every part of him ignites. He struggles in a way that can only be described as futile, screaming  _ please don’t do this,  _ and yet nothing comes of it. The only action taken is that of reloading a clip.

He’ll strangle Ardyn with his bare hands for this. 

Whatever thoughts of revenge he plotted are wiped clean by the second and third shots that ring out. 

That’s the one that cuts several connections in his head at once. Watching Noct’s blood splatter against the wall, watching him go a frightening kind of limp, severs something. It cuts a thousand different connections as the lights in the room seem to go out, and something warm and kind is all that keeps Noctis within his vision. Ignis can hear his mouth moving in the shape of a familiar name, can hear his vocal chords straining against his flesh, but not even the slightest stir comes from it. Oh, God. 

Noctis is dead.

Ignis has failed.

He can’t rip his eyes from the sight of Noctis, dead where he lay. If he tries hard enough, if he repaints the room to tacky motel colors and makes the sound of distant chatter grainy, televised, he’s just asleep. His little one is asleep, as he so loves to be, comfortable in a bed with much too many blankets. Noctis has his figurine in one hand, and he twitches every so often as he dreams. Ignis can see it, if only he focuses hard enough. Harder. Please, move.

“...wasn’t it?”

Ardyn’s voice comes in, and stops as quickly as it came. Ignis looks to him, and Ardyn fucking  _ grins  _ with something sick and bloody. He doesn’t focus on that, but instead the light smattering of Noct’s blood on one cheek - to focus on his grin would be letting him win. Letting himself be angry.

The first connection severed was reactionary actions.

Ignis’ face falls, levels like he’s undergone a data overhaul - a system reset, and looks up. Ardyn seems to know that he hadn’t heard all of what he’d said, and repeats himself. “As I was saying, isn’t this better? Children are nothing but sandbags weighing you down. They slow you, mister Scientia, they are liabilities,” Ardyn sets his gun on the far end of the small table beside him. “They are dangerous. They make you what you are. This kind of sad soft, no?”

Ignis doesn’t say anything. He just lets his lips slide into a sort of smile, knowing and waiting. 

The second connection severed was the ability to fear.

Whatever Ardyn has, physical or mental, he’s played his ace. Nothing will trump that, nothing will beat what he’s done to his favorite person; Nothing will be worse than watching bits of a child’s,  _ his child’s _ skull splatter against cold walls. 

“Sad kind of soft,” Ignis repeats, raspy, “Hm.”

His hands work behind the chair to wiggle, move and stress the zipties, even as Ardyn stars in on his monologue on wanting Regis’ bank codes. Ignis works and works and  _ works _ , feeling the industrial plastic bend and  _ finally  _ begin to give. He can feel the soft click of the prong moving, sliding against the grain even as the physical torture begins, until…

_ Snap. _

He keeps his hands in position. Ardyn is so busy bloodying his hands he doesn’t notice - it’s written all over his face. From one murderer to another, Ignis can tell he’s lost in his lust for blood, vengeance, and desire for power. Lost in his own spite, lost in his pride. He talks and he talks and he won’t shut  _ up. _

Which works to his advantage. 

Ignis waits. Bides his time, patiently waiting for the moment to strike. And that moment comes when his own switchblade is raised to his eyes.

Ignis is able to reach up with quick speed, snatching Ardyn’s hand and forcing it upward - there’s seemingly no sound as his own blade comes into contact as a deep graze to the other’s shoulder, and there’s seemingly no sound when Ignis reaches for the pistol so carelessly left close by. Two shots are fired into the other man’s knees, downing him entirely, and Ignis uses a razorblade nearby to neatly snap the binds on his legs. 

He stands slowly, his legs steady and his hands steady as he moves to stand over Ardyn, dominant hand completely still as it moves to line sights up. Ignis doesn’t hesitate to pull the trigger once, twice, three times and still more. He watches the blood splatter, watches the red paint the floor in brilliant flashes of color. The color of anger, the color of hatred. 

Of deserved revenge.

Only when Ardyn is entirely unrecognizable does he move away, moving to fetch the glasses that had been thrown to the wind. He takes them, blinking as his vision sharpens, and stares at the concrete floor below his feet. Inhaling, he turns, and faces what he knows he’s got to.

Still does his favorite person continue to lay, not even gravity daring to disturb him. Ignis smiles some sad kind of soft smile, and kneels down to remove his blazer. Carefully does he wrap the boy in it, the smallest ten-year-old Ignis is quite sure he’s ever met, and lifts him with ease. Gently does he shut Noct’s eyes, pressing a lingering kiss to a bloodied cheek. 

“Come on, little one. Why don’t we find somewhere to rest, mm?”

No response. Typical for a sleepy child, Noctis especially. He swears he hears a small little hum of agreement, and it warms him just barely. It reconnects the last severed function.

Empathy. Mercy.

Ignis holds the limp body tight to his chest, and steps over Ardyn’s body to get to the door. He whispers in hushed tones, making endless promises of safety, of a soft bed. Of a trip to the shops for an endless supply of toys. Promises. Safety. Sleep. Move. Move. Move. Breathe, please, fucking breathe, little one. I cannot do this without you.

The door to the warehouse is opened and the guards standing beside are dropped like annoying flies. Ignis drops the unloaded pistol, finding no further use for it as he resettles Noctis in his arms as carefully as he can. It would not do to wake him.

Three vehicles remain here from Ardyn and his entourage. One is taken, keys belonging to it on the dashboard, and Ignis does not lay Noctis in the back. No, he can sleep here, against Ignis’ chest. Where he is safe from harm. 

Turn the keys in the ignition. Put the car in reverse. Drive. Drive, drive, drive. Drive. Drive, drive, drive where, where the  _ fuck  _ is there to go, there’s nothing but open space and Jesus Christ, where are the hospitals and the doctors there  _ is nothing but grass where is Lunafreya? _

Ignis drives until a tree in the distance of a field catches his eye. He pulls over to the side of the road, putting the car in park and moving. Moving to that tree. It’s slightly barren, only the lightest bit green, but the grass around it is tall and soft. Noctis is still resting in his arms, and Ignis watches him intently. If only he’d wake up. They could map this place, and have lunch here in the shade it might provide. 

Ignis sits, his back to the bark as he keeps Noctis against his chest. He takes off his glasses, setting them down beside him, and shuts his eyes. He doesn’t think, for once. He only sits in silence with his son, petting the hair that does so desperately need a wash. 

Shifting just barely, he doesn’t take care to remember where he’d placed his glasses. Only when there’s a prick of pain and a sharp  _ snap  _ does he realize; Ah. In moving, he’d cracked them, rendering them useless. 

_ Useless as I am, _ Ignis muses in the back of his mind, taking them up with a slightly bloodied hand. With Noctis still against his chest, he moves to draw up the cuffs of his dress shirt to mid-forearm. 

Well. Even broken glass has its uses.

**Author's Note:**

> kudos appreciated, comments cried over, thank u. hmu @scientiasins


End file.
